


A Season for Vengeance

by The Manwell (Manniness)



Category: Gundam Wing
Genre: Backstory things, Duo POV, M/M, Sequel, Trowa POV, Trowa for MVP, alternating pov, dude in distress, modern day AU, things that go boom
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-01
Updated: 2020-04-26
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:49:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 23,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22508074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Manniness/pseuds/The%20Manwell
Summary: It's been over a year since Duo and Trowa escaped the pain and betrayal and danger of their pasts, went off the grid and started building a new life together.  But when Duo's birthday comes and goes without a single obnoxious message from his older brother, they know something is wrong.  It's time to break cover and check in.  The only problem is that Duo's brother works for a powerful government agency, so making that call will put Duo and Trowa on their radar... if they aren't already.Sequel to:A Safe Good PlaceFree RidePart3ofGone Rogue
Relationships: Solo/Heero Yuy, Trowa Barton/Duo Maxwell
Comments: 27
Kudos: 26
Collections: Gone Rogue





	1. “Then I suppose I’d better take a look.”

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Kangofu_CB](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kangofu_CB/gifts).



> So many thanks go out to Kangofu_CB who enabled all the things. *HUGS*
> 
> The chapter titles come from 54 Writing Prompts (a Tumblr post that was going around back in 2017).
> 
> This is the THIRD fic in the collection/series [Gone Rogue](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/Gone_Rogue_GW_ModernDayAU). Please do check out:  
> A Safe Good Place  
> Free Ride

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trowa POV

“Where’s Duo?”

I sputtered. “What? Not even a ‘hello’ for your uncle?”

James grinned at me and giggled. How could I manufacture irritation, either the mock or real variety, when my nephew was laughing? Joy had never been a constant for him. For me, either. Not until recently, anyway.

“Oops. Uh, hi, Uncle T.”

“Hello, J.J.” I struggled to press the smile out of my lips as I stared at him, letting the silence grow awkward.

“So… where’s Duo?” This time he gave me an impish smile. Yes, this kid knew exactly what he was doing.

I relented. “He’s running an errand. You’re stuck with me for a bit.”

“Oh, OK, I guess.”

“You guess?” I growled.

He eeped.

I lunged.

Cathy and Dorian emerged from the hall, dressed for their flight to Las Vegas for the weekend, just in time to get the full blast of James’s screaming laughter as I hefted him over my shoulder and spun us.

Keeping an arm wrapped around my eleven-year-old nephew’s kicking legs, I observed, “Cathy, you look nice. Reservations all set for dinner?”

“Direct from the airport,” she confirmed, blank-faced shock twisting into bemusement. “If this is the kind of quality entertainment you have planned for the weekend, maybe we should put the fire department on speed dial.”

“The more the merrier,” I retorted.

If not for her delicately-applied makeup, she would have face-palmed.

“Just don’t destroy the house,” Dorian ordered.

I smirked.

“Mom! Dad! Tell him to lemme go!”

I spun him again. “Not until you appreciate how great your Uncle T is, J.J.”

“All I said was--aaaargh!” A spin back the other way had him groaning. “Put me down or I’m gonna hurl!”

“Nope.”

“Not kidding, Uncle Trowa. Gonna barf.”

I prided myself on sensing when someone was bluffing. Plus, given the fact that he’d survived the Tilt-o-Whirl not once but three times when the carnival had been in town last summer, we were not anywhere near Spew City. Yet.

Apparently, Cathy concurred. She rolled her eyes and gestured for me to turn around. I obliged so she could say goodbye to her son’s face rather than his denim-covered posterior.

“Be good for your uncle,” she ordered.

“Where would the fun be in that?” I heard Dorian mutter.

I gave him a toothy grin. The one that Duo told me looked like I had escaped from Hell to feed on babies.

“Only if he’s nice to me,” James stipulated.

Cathy, wisely, refused to agree to those terms. “Do what he tells you, including your you-know-what that’s due on Monday.”

“Homework? Aw, Mom. Really?”

“Um-hmm.”

Cathy ruffled his hair before stepping around us to collect her purse. “We’ll be home Sunday around six p.m. The name of the hotel and our schedule is on the fridge.”

I made a noise to indicate that I was listening. Dorian maneuvered himself and both their carry-on bags around the obstacle of me-and-a-squirming-James in the living room. I was starting to think of my brother-in-law’s belabored sighs as a brotherly endearments. Duo fully encouraged this delusion.

“We’ll have our cellphones turned on unless we’re in a theater.”

“Got it.”

“There’s a coupon for pizza next to the phone.”

“OK.”

“If you kill anyone, bury the body in the neighbor’s yard, not ours.”

“Duh.”

Dorian very thoughtfully reminded my sister, “Your brother already knows the best places to hide a body. Let’s get going or we’ll get stuck in rush hour traffic.”

With a pat to my shoulder and a lipstick-y kiss to her son’s forehead, Cathy moved toward the door, turning on the threshold to wave back at us as it closed.

James sighed. “Are you gonna put me down now?”

“That depends.”

“On what?”

He was right to be wary. “On if you promise to get some of your homework done before Duo gets here.”

He heaved a sigh, going limp with defeat. “Fine.”

I set him down and pointed him toward his room to collect his book bag. I may not enjoy the fact that I wasn’t my nephew’s favorite uncle, but I’d be damned if I didn’t use it to my advantage.

Actually, this was something that I had been endeavoring to teach Duo…

> “Tro. Babe. I can’t do that.”
> 
> “Why not?”
> 
> “It just wouldn’t be fair.”
> 
> “Maybe you’ve heard this rumor that’s been going around? About life not being fair?”
> 
> My fiancé had shrunk back with shock. “What? No! The horror.”
> 
> “I’m sorry.” I’d leaned in for a slow kiss. “I didn’t mean to ‘spoiler’ you.”
> 
> “Why don’t you make it up to me?”
> 
> “Maybe I will… if you sign up for the RC flier competition.”
> 
> He’d sighed, dropping his head to stare at the scuffed linoleum. I’d crouched beside him at the kitchen table. The pamphlet I’d strategically placed on its battered surface was the only splash of color in our drab, efficiency apartment which was located above the shop on the first floor.
> 
> “Duo, my all,” I’d breathed, “you love flying. I’ve seen you testing out the planes you’ve repaired. You are amazing. Besides, the shop could use the exposure.” We’d already had T-shirts made with the name, Max Limit Hobbies, and the logo of an RC plane swooping out of a dive. They served as our uniforms most days. We each had two. And we kept a dozen at the shop; Duo included a shirt with our compliments whenever a customer bought one of his custom-built RC planes or helicopters, cars or tanks.
> 
> We’d talked briefly about building drones, but before we’d gotten a real start on that, rumors of government regulation had killed the possibility. We couldn’t afford the attention it would bring. As it was, we’d had more than one customer offer enough to cover the down-payment on a new car if Duo would put together a custom drone.
> 
> Custom. In other words, unique and memorable. According to my way of thinking.
> 
> Or, outside government regulation and potentially harmful to others, according to Duo’s.
> 
> But this RC event could have been good for us. Money was tight and maybe always would be, but Duo was so damned skillful it was a waste for him to spend his days hand-painting cheap beginner models. Hell, I could do that. In fact, I _had_ been doing that at the painting station we’d set up in the workshop. I’d sand parts or I’d paint or varnish while he’d do the actual designing, carving, machining, and building.
> 
> “I do love it,” he’d admitted. “That’s why I don’t wanna enter. I love it too much to let people judge it, babe.”
> 
> “Then don’t worry about that part.”
> 
> “I… Jesus, Tro. I’d be going up against kids like J.J. and…” Again, he’d shaken his head. “It just won’t be fair to them.”
> 
> “Be fair next year.” I’d brushed his bangs aside, seeking his gaze. “Please? Do this. For me.”
> 
> His teeth had flashed as he’d tried to bite back a grin. Shaking his head, he’d accused, “You are ruthless.”
> 
> “So? Use it to your advantage.”
> 
> “And just how would I go about doing that?”
> 
> “Well, I’m clearly desperate. I’d probably agree to all kinds of things in exchange for this favor.”
> 
> “Yeah? What kinds of things?”
> 
> “Why don’t you find out?”

He had.

“Uncle Trowa, what’s with the creepy smile?”

I shrugged. “Just thinking about what I want on my pizza.”

“No olives,” my nephew, Jeremy Jacob … also known as J.J., stated.

I made no promises. Instead, I gestured for him to slide his completed math homework my way so I could check it. “You been working on your new model?”

“The GTO? Yeah. Little bit.”

“How many pages have you got to read in Social Studies?”

He tried to play it off with a shrug. “A couple.”

“Hm. Get started on that. Once you finish we’ll make some smores.”

“Before dinner?”

“Would you rather wait until after?”

“Heck no!”

I pushed the textbook his way and he cracked it open with impressive enthusiasm. Before I took a look at his long division, I reconnoitered the kitchen cupboards. Graham crackers? Check. Large marshmallows? Check. Chocolate? We’d make do with the bag of semi-sweet chocolate chips I’d scrounged up.

Just finishing up my duties as homework supervisor, I heard the sound of the back gate swinging open. Dorian had complained of the squeal. I’d given him a damn good reason to leave it right where it was: “You’d want to be able to hear someone trespassing on your property, wouldn’t you?”

It sounded like we had a visitor.

“J.J.,” I said, “take a break and go get the GTO to show Duo.”

He looked up from the long paragraph he was wading through. “What… now?”

“Yes. Do it now.”

Something in my expression or tone must have warned him not to give me any sass about it. He slid off of the kitchen chair and headed for the hallway and his room. I stood up and moved toward the refrigerator. Grabbed the sharpening steel from the knife block as well as a paring knife. Crouched down. Waited. Listened to the sound of footsteps crunching in the snow. Boots moving with stealth on the cement patio.

A knock on the screen door.

“Anybody home?”

“It’s open,” I said, listening as the door opened and Duo stepped inside. I relaxed only after he threw the deadbolt.

He tugged his feet from his snow boots and then leaned a shoulder against the refrigerator as I moved to put my weapons back. “What were you gonna do with those?”

I gave the sharpening steel a lazy swing. “Shins--” and I flipped the paring knife deftly “--and either groin or jugular depending on how the first shot worked out.”

“Hot,” he approved, shrugging out of his coat.

“Paranoid,” I corrected.

“Works for me.”

“It abnormally works for you.”

He grinned. “Yeah, there must be something seriously wrong with me.”

That sounded like an opening I ought to investigate. I crowded closer. “Then I suppose I’d better take a look. Find out what the problem is.”

Duo’s eyes flashed with invitation.

“Problem?” my nephew parroted. I backed up a step just as he came back into the kitchen with his Christmas present from both me and Duo in hand. “Duo!”

“Hey, dude. How’s it going? Looks like you’re making progress,” Duo observed with a gesture toward the model car. “Have a seat and bring me up to speed.”

I bumped Duo’s shoulder as he moved toward the table. “Nice one,” I muttered, congratulating him on the pun.

It wasn’t until James was in the bathroom, taking his bath before bed, that Duo’s smile drooped far enough to let me see the stress around his eyes.

“What is it? A problem?” 

He sighed, shoulders tensing. “Yeah, you could say that.”

I reached up to squeeze the locked-down muscles on either side of his neck. “Still no word?”

“Not a single one.”

And given that we’d celebrated Duo’s birthday almost two weeks ago, he definitely should have heard something. Something obnoxious, at the very least. From what Duo had told me of him, neither Hell or high water could stop Solo Maxwell from doing his best to embarrass his little brother on Duo’s thirty-first birthday. And I had to concur given Solo’s efforts last year. The subject of the email had been: The Big 3-0 (take it like a man)!

Plus, in the body of the email itself, Solo had shared a truly awful attempt at a limerick:

> _There once was a geek who turned thirty,_
> 
> _and never dared any sex dirty,_
> 
> _then he met a guy,_
> 
> _who convinced him to try_
> 
> _a banana, and my it was fruity!_

Just awful.

“Something’s wrong,” my lover breathed, glancing toward the curtained front windows as if the answer was just outside sitting on the frozen front lawn.

I braced myself for what I knew was coming.

He met my gaze with an apology. “I’ve gotta call.”

I nodded. “Then that’s what we’ll do.”

He blinked at my choice of words before a wry grin curved his lips.

I wrapped my arms around him. “When?” I asked.

“Sunday night.”

“OK.” I pulled him close for a tight embrace. “We’ll call.”

We both knew what that phone call would mean; the Center would be able to track him… if they hadn’t zeroed in on his location already. In fact, this whole thing could be a ruse to draw him out. If it was, we would have to be very, very careful.

He tucked his chin against my shoulder and I bit my lip, blinking back the heat in my eyes. We’d always known this day might come. 

“Thank you,” I whispered, knowing what it was costing him to wait, imagining how difficult it would be for me to put off looking for Cathy if I suspected something wasn’t right. Duo’s hands rubbed my back and I reaffirmed my hold on him. I was being given two more days with my nephew and I was going to have the chance to say goodbye to Cathy before Duo and I might have to start running.

If worse came to worst and we did have to disappear, then we wouldn’t be able to risk coming back. Not for a long, long time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This particular Duo’s birthday is in late December, so this fic takes place in the first half of January. James (now named J.J.) would have turned twelve in April, but he’s probably got a new birth certificate with a new birthday thanks to his dad being in Witness Protection. Duo had a birthday (his 30th) while they were hiding out in the house in Amish country (in A Safe Good Place).
> 
> Since Duo and Trowa are now living under assumed names, the FBI (and Witness Protection) don’t (shouldn’t?) have them on their radar. They are, for all intents and purposes, invisible.


	2. “Just keep the noise down.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trowa POV
> 
> Warnings: sexytimes, reference to past abuse

It wasn’t an old trick as the technology itself was relatively new, but it was an effective one: Duo and Solo shared an email account. They both knew the password, so keeping in touch was a simple matter of logging in, typing a message, and leaving it in the Unsent Drafts to be read, deleted, and typed over by the intended recipient.

It wasn’t without risk; server IP addresses could be tracked and email accounts could be hacked. Given that Solo Maxwell was an active government agent, it was highly likely that his Internet activity was monitored. Therefore, Duo never checked that email account anywhere near our home.

He would drive for hours every week just to visit an Internet cafe or he’d pay cash at a hotel. Whatever it took. He didn’t leave the state, but he kept himself and our car away from traffic and surveillance cameras. We didn’t even use ATMs, and bank runs were made as infrequently as possible. We had an online account for the shop so we could accept credit cards, but we kept a low profile. No Twitter or Facebook or Instagram. Customers were constantly disappointed. Duo would smile and promise to look into it soon. He eagerly blamed his lack of progress on the SNS front on how busy he was in the workshop.

It wasn’t easy for someone to hide these days and still make a living legitimately, but we’d been making it work.

Until now.

We drove back to our place on Sunday evening. As the asphalt snapped beneath the tire tread, my hand found Duo’s thigh and he gripped my fingers. We didn’t talk about the long hug I’d given my nephew or the look in Cathy’s eyes that had told me she’d known something was wrong…

“I’ll call when I can,” I’d promised her as Duo had talked RC things with James.

She’d nodded and thrown her arms around my shoulders. “We’ll be here.”

Here. The suburban paradise where Dorian was the manager of a recently built strip mall and my sister worked with the local schools and neighborhood church designing and making costumes for children’s theater productions.

Here. The quiet city where my nephew had real friends and a shot at a normal life.

“Be careful,” she’d pleaded.

“We will,” Duo had answered for me. He’d stood at my side and waited for me to be ready. I’d hesitated long enough that Dorian had clued in. Surprisingly, he hadn’t looked glad to maybe be seeing the last of me. He’d looked… concerned.

Placing his hands on his son’s shoulders, he’d offered, “If you need anything…”

I’d held up a hand. “No. We’ve got this. Don’t worry.”

It was as close as I could come to assuring him that I would not risk his family’s safety.

Arriving home, Duo stopped me from heading straight to the bedroom closet to start packing.

“I have to say this, even though you won’t like it.”

“What?”

“You don’t have to come with me. I can check in with Heero by myself.”

I bit back my instant retort. Living with Duo, I’d gotten used to speaking my mind, but the sudden heat of anger and betrayal had me reverting back to one of the most important lessons I’d learned in my childhood: think before you speak.

Duo added, “You know why I have to give you an out here, babe.”

I did. However… “Then you know why I’m not going to take it.”

His fingertips brushed over my cheekbones and he leaned in. Kissed me. Sealed our bargain. I could live without a lot of things. Once upon a time, I had survived without a roof over my head or a working refrigerator or even the food to put in it. I knew how to get by without a place to call home. The two weeks Duo and I had been apart as we’d both burned the bridges to our respective pasts had taught me one thing: I wouldn’t enjoy a single day without him. I didn’t even want to try.

This time, when I moved in the direction of the closet, Duo didn’t stop me.

We packed like we didn’t expect to return. I unearthed the rifle and the handgun. Plus the ammo. The garrote. Packed up what food we could take with us. Blankets. First aid kit. It was best to be prepared. Just in case.

I considered the flute that Duo had given me for my birthday last year. He’d even been trying to convince me to join the community band that played in the park on fair, Saturday evenings in the summertime. “Next year,” I’d promised him.

Duo reached past me and slid the case off of the shelf, tucked it into a duffel bag that was already bulging past the point of being zipped up.

“It doubles as a weapon, yeah?” Duo pointed out, making me snort.

“Sure.” I pressed a quick kiss to his smiling cheek and then locked up on our way out.

We drove all through the night. Duo located a payphone at a roadside diner after we’d eaten. We’d each had two cups of coffee. I’d ordered us refills to go. The car had a full tank of gas. We were as ready for the fallout as we would ever be.

He made the call taking deliberate, deep breaths. As he punched the last number, he curled his hand into a fist and pressed it to the top of the phone’s metal casing.

I didn’t hear the call connect.

Duo looked me in the eyes as he asked, “Hey, that jucking ferk around?”

There was a pause.

“Need a hand?”

I waited some more.

“Where?”

 _Breathe,_ I reminded myself.

“On my way.”

Duo hung up. I didn’t ask what had been said and he didn’t volunteer. Neither did I ask why he hadn’t mentioned me. I knew why. I was his backup.

It was my turn to drive. I slid behind the wheel. Buckled up. When Duo told me to turn left out onto the rural highway, I complied. I watched him out of the corner of my eye, waiting for him to gather his thoughts. With every silent mile, my tension coiled tighter.

“My brother’s gone AWOL,” he finally said. “It’s been seventeen days since anyone has heard from him.”

“You trust Heero Yuy,” I observed. That fact alone made me curious to the point of jealousy.

“I know him.” The muscles in Duo’s jaw clenched as he leaned his forehead into his palm. “And now I know what he sounds like when he’s on the verge of losing his shit.”

“So he and your brother are still together?”

“I assume so. Heero doesn’t open up to just anyone. And he’s cracked like an egg.”

“Where are we meeting him?”

“I,” Duo clearly emphasized, “am meeting him at an outlet mall. Inside a discount bookstore. Tomorrow. Three p.m.”

“Probably has the best cover.” Bullets could go through bone and even metal, but book bindings and stacks of paper were almost as good as kevlar. I told him this in answer to his inquiring look and concluded, “Make sure you have some large, heavy volumes on hand.”

Duo chuckled. “It’s terrible that I love that you know this stuff.”

I smirked. “Let me go in first.”

“We’ll see if we make good time.” Right. Because Heero Yuy could identify me and our first priority was to guarantee that the man didn’t have backup of his own.

Duo told me the name of the town, which was unknown and unremarkable. Clearly, this was not a place where interesting or news-worthy things happened. That meant there was a good chance we’d be able to avoid cameras. Plus, the shop itself probably wouldn’t bother with surveillance. Cheap books were bulky and not a popular choice for shoplifters.

We had over twenty-four hours to get there. Plenty of time. I drove at the speed limit. Duo didn’t complain when I pulled into a battered-looking motel that evening. I gestured toward the glove box and Duo passed the hair gel over. He watched with a bemused grin as I quickly arranged my hair into a comb-over style. When I gave the gel back to him, he passed me a pair of clunky eye glasses with slightly tinted lenses that made my eyes look a muddy brown.

I didn’t have to ask him to stay in the car while I got the room, but I did ask him if he wanted anything from the vending machines… provided there were any in the lobby.

“Nope, don’t need anything except you, Clark Kent.”

I tweaked his chin. “Are you sassing me?”

The playful light in his eyes turned into a sparkle. “If you can’t tell, then I’m not doing it right.”

“Well, see if you can figure it out while I’m gone.”

“If I do?”

“You might get to see what I’ve got on under my shirt.”

He gave me a hot look. Pure anticipation this time.

Conversing with the middle-aged man behind the front desk was more than irritating enough to distract me from the evening’s agenda: “Ain’t seen you around here before.”

“Just got transferred to the area. Sales rep.”

“Uh-huh. Just keep the noise down.” He glanced at my left hand and the wedding band on my ring finger. “And if you get found out and your wife shows up, I’m charging you for a third person, whether she stays the night or not.”

I finished registering without comment, scooped up the key, and went back to the car.

Duo held out a hand for the key, his own wedding band glinting in the outdoor lights bracketing the lobby entrance. “A pleasant experience was it?”

“He’s only alive because a missing person would draw attention.”

“Said like an outlaw who’s never been caught.”

“Isn’t that one of the things you love about me?”

“Which one?”

I felt my lips curve as I maneuvered the car around to the side parking near the door to our ground-floor room. “The outlaw part, of course. I fully intend to be caught as often as you can manage to keep up.”

“You’ll be in your thirties some day, pal.”

I parked and grinned at him. “What’s that got to do with it?”

“Oh-ho. So the insult’s personal.”

“That wasn’t an insult.”

Duo arched a brow at me.

I clarified. “It was a challenge.”

“Don’t think you’re doing it right.” But his sexy smile said otherwise.

“Then why don’t you show me how?”

“Follow me.”

Duo grabbed his overnight bag and hauled himself out of the car. Gathering my backpack, which contained the handgun, I obeyed his command. He had the door unlocked and open by the time I crossed the sidewalk. The moment I stepped over the threshold, Duo had the door shut and locked. With both hands, he gently lifted the hideous glasses from the bridge of my nose and slid them off. They landed on the banged up desk with a clatter.

“That’s a little better.” 

I dropped my bag on the desk as his fingers delved into my hair, messing up the barely-set gel.

“There we go. Now you look a little familiar.”

“Just a little?”

“Hold on. Lemme check.” His palm slid over the front of my jeans and pressed between my legs. I groaned and he hummed. “More like ‘a lot,’” he evaluated on a hot breath.

“Is that a promise?” I heckled with the last of my wandering attention.

“Only if you brought the lube.”

As if I would have forgotten. It was right where I’d packed it: left-side pocket of my backpack. I rolled it into Duo’s grasp as he leaned up for a kiss. A zipper raced open and my coat was shoved off of my shoulders. A grip on my belt buckle had my hips rocking toward him. I tunneled my fingers into his loose braid and just held on, thrilled by his initiative and wondering what he had in mind.

I soon found out.

“Hands flat on the desk,” he breathed, turning me around and tugging my jeans and underwear halfway down my thighs.

I bit my lip, but the moan escaped anyway. I didn’t care. How could I when Duo’s hot tongue was already surging against my tailbone at the top of my ass. I gasped, hissed, panted. The sound of the cap on the lube snapping open generated goose bumps on the back of my neck. I tried to widen my stance, but couldn’t.

“Duo,” I began. “My clothes are in the way.”

“Yup, so they are.” His cool, slick fingers slid between my cheeks and massaged me.

I pushed back against his touch. “What are you going to do about it?”

“Not a damn thing.”

“You… what? Oh, fuck,” I groaned as one finger pushed inside. Yes, yes, yes--

“Not yet,” he informed me huskily, “but we’re starting the final countdown.”

“Let’s count up,” I argued on a whine.

“One,” he drawled, thrusting deep and then withdrawing. “Two…”

Ah, fucking fuck. I gritted my teeth against my need for him, for this, for more. My panting breaths were turning the tips of my bangs sticky, but I kept both hands flat on the desk like he’d asked.

“Eyes up, Trowa.”

I lifted my gaze and met his in the time-speckled mirror just as my tongue darted out to nudge a few tickling strands away from my lips and I struggled not to close my eyes as those two fingers withdrew to be joined by a third. Aaaah, too shallow. Too fucking shallow. I rocked back toward him.

“Good?” he checked needlessly.

“Yes. More.”

They slid deeper and I was mindlessly fighting against the denim that kept my legs from spreading.

“Clothes,” I complained again.

“Not yet.”

“Guh!” I commented, riding his hand, pressing my palms hard enough against the scarred desktop to leave behind hand prints. Oh, God. This was not anything like how we usually made love and that just made it more exciting and unpredictable and I was so hot with need for him to just--

“No!” I gasped as he withdrew.

“Look at me.”

When had I closed my eyes? I had no idea. I opened them and Duo took half a step to the side. I drank in his reflection as he yanked his wool shirt and long-sleeved undershirt off in one motion. I eyed his bare chest, my tongue tingling with the memory of his taste. His hands went to the front of his jeans and I licked my lips as the top button was freed. The zipper descended.

Dear God but his arousal was gorgeous and perfect and all for me. Just me.

“Duo,” I begged.

“You want me?”

“Yes.”

“You gonna fight me?”

I swallowed. “Do…” My voice was thready and weak. _Breathe, damn it._ “Do you want me to?”

He shook his head slowly.

“Then I won’t.”

He smiled, his lips curving with warmth and gentleness and pure joy. Yes, he knew what it cost me to relinquish control. He’d known since even before the first time I’d had him deep inside me. I’d never allowed anyone to have me that way before; Duo had been my first and I could not bear to imagine a scenario in which he wasn’t also my last and my only.

I watched his gleaming fingers curl around his arousal, envied them as they measured and stroked until he was slick above the bunched up jeans and underwear. He moved behind me and out of sight. A whine slithered up my throat as I waited. Anticipated. I needed his touch so badly I hurt for it.

His left hand, warm and dry, splayed over my lower back, shocking me as I was expecting a completely different kind of touch. His palm raced over my skin, pushing my turtleneck and sweater up, exposing my bare skin along with old, faded scars, the least of which were from belt buckles and lit cigarettes and broken glass. He lowered his face until he couldn’t meet my eyes anymore and placed soft kisses on either side of my spine, which bowed.

“Duo…” I tried to remind him, my hips shifting.

He licked at a burn scar and then lifted his head. As our eyes met, I felt him move against me. Thrusting deep in one smooth, slow push. My jaw went slack and my torso heaved with each booming breath and my eyelids drooped. Oh, fuck did he feel good.

“Hmmm, Trowa,” he groaned deep in his chest, his gaze smoldering with lazy heat.

My fingers started to curl on the desktop. Paint chips caked under my short nails. I forced myself to let go. I squeezed down on his arousal instead.

“Damn it,” he swore through gritted teeth, but he didn’t move. “Breaking your promise already?”

“Desperate enough to.”

“Ah, I don’t want you desperate, Trowa. I want you willing--” He slid out very slowly. “--and moaning--” He pushed back in just as slowly. “--and so hot--” My breath hitched as he gave a short, hard snap of his hips that left me tingling in the darkness behind my closed eyelids. “--just feeling me in you.” Again, that snap that made my arms and thighs tense and my toes curl inside my snow boots. “That’s what I want. Just you. All of you.”

“You--uhn, Duo--you have me.” Fingers curled around my hips and held me steady as he surged inside me with shallow but fierce thrusts and his lips and breath and tongue moved over my back and I was willing, so willing to give what he wanted and take what he offered and--please, God, don’t ever let this stop. “You have me,” I echoed. “You have me.”

Those three words. How many times I said them, swore them, vowed to him, I didn’t know. As often as I groaned his name and panted breathless curses and I was so needy for the feel of him inside me that my aching arousal barely registered. Oh, God this was so good-- _Ah! Yes_ \--and again-- _Duo, please. You have me_ \--and again-- _You have me, Duo_ \--and again-- _Please!_

“Still OK?” he breathed.

I opened my eyes as his hand smoothed around to my chest and his nails flicked over my skin. I nodded, barely coherent.

“More lube?”

“No, no, it’s good it’s so good Duo you’re so--” My voice faded as his gaze dropped to my back and then his breath, lips, tongue followed and he finished my thought for me: “So good.”

Yes. Yes, yes, yes. Yes, it was so, so good, but it was also a tease. Neither one of us would be able to come like this with only enough heat and friction to suspend us in lust and not allow us to break through to the surface.

“Duo, clothes,” I insisted for a third time.

“I’m not going to stop you from taking them off,” he murmured against my skin, still moving at that same drawn-out pace.

I groaned and pushed back, moving us both away from the desk. Clearance gained, I slid my hands to the edge, and when no protest came forth, I quickly shucked my shirt and sweater off. Duo reaffirmed his grasp on my hips, slowing his thrusts slightly, and I reached down for the laces on my boots, gasping when he went deeper, groaning at the sharper angle.

I gasped his name as I yanked the knots free and clawed at the laces. Then I reached back even further, aiming for his boots, too.

“Ah, Trowa,” he moaned, his voice pure pleasure that inflamed my own lust for more. I scratched both of us as I shoved the jeans and underwear down our legs. The fabric now bunched around our ankles, Duo warned me, “Sitting us down now, baby,” and I gasped out a cry as I was impaled on his length with the hard mattress beneath his thighs. I was rocking against him before he could ask if I was all right. I was. I was so very, very all right.

But now we had the opposite issue as before to address: not enough leverage for release.

Struggling for breath, I leaned over--oh, fuck, he went so deep and he was so hard--and I batted our shoes away, peeled our jeans and underwear off, ripped at our socks. As I sat up, I was finally finally finally able to open my legs and Duo’s arms came around me on a groan as I rocked and rode him. His fingers trailed up the inside of my thighs, skipped up to my hips, and guided my mindless rhythm. My head fell back on his shoulder an his mouth latched onto my neck. I couldn’t speak -- I could barely think -- as his hardness rubbed deep and relentless, sparking little bursts of light across the black behind my eyelids.

“With me now,” he whispered and I felt his arms band around me tightly and the world tilt until he was moving inside me as we lay on our sides on the cheap, polyester bedspread.

I somehow managed to reply, “I’m with you. Ah, Duo, I’m with you.”

The arm threaded beneath my neck shifted and his hand was suddenly plucking at my bare skin. The other massaged my hip and circled lower. Across my chest and thighs, he petted and caressed and he was still moving in me and with me and his need for me was such an incredible rush.

I reached back and gripped what I could find of him: his hair, his hip. I hissed as the tip of my arousal brushed against the bedspread, reminding me of how hard and sensitive and aching I was. “Duo, please, I need…” I fumbled for his hand and he shifted, bit my earlobe as his fingertips trailed along my length. “Please!” I choked out.

“Hmmm,” he agreed. “Just a second, baby.”

His hands withdrew and I was left dazed--What-wait-why?--before I heard the cap on the lube open again. One thrust, a second, a third, and then his hand was back, cool and slippery, curving around me, distracting me at first, but as the gel warmed, the heat started building and my blood was rushing, Duo was rocking against my prostate and his hand was pumping me and my heart was pounding and then it was happening happening happening--!

And.

I was still breathing. Or I was breathing again.

Whichever.

I reached for Duo. He nuzzled the nape of my neck and nipped my skin as he shifted.

“Oh, God.” The words were garbled but the meaning was clear.

“You OK?” Duo checked, holding off until I nodded and oh God he was still hard. Deep. My skin erupted with feverish heat and chills.

I groaned, then hissed as he pulled back, long and slow. He shifted, applying more lubricant to his length before easing inside again. My spine arched at the renewed slickness.

“Better?” he breathed.

I nodded more readily this time and then I simply felt. I leaned back into Duo’s strength and heat as he took me and took care of me and--

“Oh, God,” I swore yet again as he sat up and urged my top leg over his nearest shoulder, straddled my opposite thigh, braced himself over me and--

I grabbed for his shoulders, bringing him in for a kiss and he moaned. “Jesus, Trowa. Ah, damn you are so flexible.”

It was the furthest thing from my mind. I sucked on his tongue until he reared back, lifted up enough to bring my pinned leg around his waist and the other around to encircle his hips and--

Yes, yes, yes Duo was between my thighs, cradling my face in one hand as he held himself up with the other and kissed me over and over and--

His mouth on mine, hot breaths, teeth and bites-nips-nibbles on lips slick with each other’s flavors, the gentle brush and surging rasp of tongues, his belly rubbing against my reawakening arousal and his hard length plunging into me again and again and again and--

The build was relentless and would not be rushed. I tore at the bedspread, ripping it from its moorings. I grabbed Duo’s neck and pulled him close every time he started to drift too far from my mouth. I nipped his shoulders, turned toward the warm palm cradling my cheek and tongued his thumb, tasting the salt on his skin and--

When I came for a second time, it spilled through me, out of me, over me like sun-warmed honey. I was still gasping for breath, eyes open and devouring the sight of Duo over me, snapping his hips between my thighs with speed and strength that had only one conclusion.

He reached it.

I watched.

I heard him breathe my name.

I pushed his sweaty bangs back from his forehead and, as my ring caught the lamplight, I tilted my nose down to nuzzle the matching band on his finger. His thumb brushed my cheek. His eyes opened.

“Are you--?” he started to ask.

“Perfect,” I interrupted, smiling and exhausted. He returned my joy with sparkling eyes and a breath-taking grin.

Duo fell asleep first. He also woke first. I knew this because I opened my eyes to the sound of the shower. I sat up slowly, testing sore muscles and staring at Duo’s haphazardly emptied bag. That sight, more than anything else, soothed the niggling thought that had occurred to me yesterday evening as Duo had asked me to relinquish the reins of my control to him.

From what I’d been told of Duo’s past work with the Center, he’d never had a partner. Before he’d returned to close that chapter of his life, he’d never had to depend on another person for his well-being.

I had. I’d depended totally on Cathy when we’d run away from home. On the streets, we’d had no choice but to trust each other totally. If we hadn’t… well, that way lay madness, I was sure.

What Duo and I were doing -- what we were going to do this afternoon -- was about to test us in ways we’d only had a brief taste of. Just once before. On the day I’d come to in the driver’s seat of my car outside my apartment building with a bomb strapped to my chest beneath an unfamiliar thermal vest.

Duo had offered to do this alone. I had declined, but would he nonetheless insist? Would he leave me here in an attempt to keep me safe and far from the reach of the Center?

Last night, Duo had asked for my trust.

This morning, with an unpacked bag and the sound of running water, he’d shown me his.

We could do this. Duo and I, we could do and face anything together.

But, first things first. With a smirking grin, I tossed back the covers and went to join my lover in the shower.


	3. “Don’t be stupid.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trowa POV
> 
> Warnings: reference to past child abuse

The bookstore in the outlet mall was nothing like the one Duo and I had once frequented back when Khushrenada’s hand had still held a tight grip on my leash and Duo had appeared to be a mere -- but clearly talented -- hobby store clerk. 

The first time Duo had taken me there had been for our third date. We’d switched off on accompanying each other to different sections. Browsing the shelves. Pulling down titles that intrigued. Reading aloud summaries and excerpts from old favorites. Discovering which genres and authors and titles we’d had in common.

Duo had eventually pulled me to the children’s section and grabbed a book of poetry. I’d bought us coffee at the cafe on an elevated platform in the center of the store. Duo had read humorous poems to me.

It had been the first time we’d shared something of our distant pasts…

> “This is an old favorite,” Duo had announced after turning the page and then he’d recited with only a quick glance at the text: “’If you have to wash the dishes, such an awful, boring chore; if you have to wash the dishes instead of going to the store; if you have to wash the dishes and you drop one on the floor, maybe you won’t have to wash the dishes anymore!’”
> 
> I’d tensed.
> 
> His friendly smile had vanished. “Trowa?”
> 
> I’d blinked myself out of my own memories. Many, many memories of breaking glass and drunken shouts and inevitable pain. Clearing my throat, I’d made an effort not to crush my mostly-full paper coffee cup. “That doesn’t work. In my experience.” My smile had been forced. I’d lifted the cup, seeking the only distraction available to my shaking hands.
> 
> Heedless of the other customers milling about at eight o’clock that weekday evening, Duo had stretched out an arm across the small table and gently nudged the cuff of my button-down shirt up my wrist. I usually preferred to wear cotton knits like turtlenecks and sweatshirts -- something with elastic cuffs at the end of the sleeves; I’d learned long ago how best to conceal injuries.
> 
> The feel of his fingertips brushing the jagged, raised line of tissue over my wrist bone had hit me like a knee to the gut. Not a foreign sensation. But the cause had robbed me of breath.
> 
> “You didn’t get this on the playground as a kid?”
> 
> I’d looked into his eyes and slowly shaken my head. Had anyone else asked, I would have shrugged it off. Lied. Like I always had.
> 
> Not this time.
> 
> My breath had crowded in my throat as I’d waited for his concern to shift to revulsion or worse: pity.
> 
> His fingers had brushed the scar once more. His mouth had opened and I’d braced myself for--
> 
> “Duo? Is that you?”
> 
> We’d both startled; Duo’s gaze snapped up as he tensed and his smile stretched to the point of being strained. “Relena. It’s good to see you again.” I’d watched as he stood and allowed the young woman to give him a brief hug. “How have you been?”
> 
> “Good. And you?”
> 
> “Yeah. Not bad. Um, this is Trowa.”
> 
> I’d extended my hand at an angle that would conceal the scar that had drawn Duo’s attention. “Pleasure.”
> 
> “Nice to meet you. I’m sorry for the interruption. It’s just been so long since I’ve seen this one--” She’d tilted her head in Duo’s direction. “In the neighborhood or at church.”
> 
> He’d huffed out at brief laugh. “Sunday school just isn’t the same without me, huh?”
> 
> She’d rolled her eyes. “You should come to the sermon this weekend. Both of you,” she’d thought to add.
> 
> Duo had replied for us. “We’ll see.” Again, that too thin smile had reappeared. “It was lucky running into you. Take care.”
> 
> “You, too. I hope you can both make it this Sunday.”
> 
> I’d watched Duo as he’d watched her walk away. Retaking our seats, I’d attempted to joke, “First girlfriend?”
> 
> His breath had left him on a weary chuckle. “No, nothing like that. No matter how much my parents had wished otherwise.”
> 
> I’d quirked a brow.
> 
> Duo had glared down into his cooling coffee. “Don’t worry about the church invite. We won’t be going.”
> 
> “Why’s that?” Not that I’d had any genuine interest in attending, but the fact that he didn’t want me there stung.
> 
> “Because my mom and dad will go and we haven’t spoken since I, um, made it clear that I was never going to bring a nice _girl_ home for them to meet.”
> 
> “Oh.” I’d glanced down at my shirt cuff. Standing and shaking Relena’s hand had allowed the fabric to shift back into place.
> 
> “Hey,” Duo had softly called, his voice hoarse. My gaze lifted and I allowed him to hold it. His lashes lowered as he glanced toward my scar. “You didn’t deserve that. Doesn’t matter what you did. That’s not your fault.”
> 
> This time, I’d been the one to reach across the table. I’d touched the underside of his chin with the tips of my first and middle fingers until he was looking me in the eye again. “Your parents…” I’d paused to let Duo fill in their faults for himself; I hadn’t known enough about the situation yet to make assumptions. However, it had been easy and right for me to tell him, “That’s not your fault, either.”
> 
> The look of absolute relief and gratitude he’d given me… the way his lips had curved into a soft smile… I had lost my heart to him for good in that moment. Felt it slip through my fingers.
> 
> So easily. So quickly. It had left me breathless and aching to touch him… which I had. As I’d pulled up in front of Howard’s store to drop him off, I’d put my car in park and turned toward him, already finding him leaning close.
> 
> My left hand had slid over the warm skin of his neck and jaw. His hair, braided as ever, had tickled my fingers. His mouth had met mine in a hungry clash of teeth and tongue, hot breath and need kept in check only by the seat belts we still wore.
> 
> As if between the two of us we had enough broken pieces to make a whole.
> 
> When he’d pulled back, I’d dropped my hand to his shoulder.
> 
> “We gotta take this slow,” Duo had cautioned. “The point of no return--”
> 
> “Too late,” I’d breathed.
> 
> His lips had trembled as if attempting to form words without sound, but then he’d kissed me again. Softly. “I know.”
> 
> My fingers had drifted back to his neck, then along his jaw. His cheek.
> 
> He’d pulled away and opened his eyes. “Sunday morning in the park?” he’d suggested.
> 
> I’d grinned. “I’ll ask about bringing James.”
> 
> “You do that.”
> 
> “I’ll call you later.”
> 
> Duo’s crooked, charmed, teasing smile had filled the dull interior of my unremarkable car with promise. “Do that, too.”

“Do me a favor,” I now asked of him as he contemplated the storefronts in the strip mall. There weren’t enough cars in the lot for camouflaging ourselves in numbers. We’d parked around back with the employees’ vehicles. Entered via a service door that led to public restrooms and a bank of vending machines. Baby strollers for rent and coin lockers. The bookstore was across the nearly empty lot. At two o’clock, a dark SUV had prowled through.

“Heero,” Duo had whispered of the driver. “He’ll run plates until I show up.”

“Now you tell me,” I’d grouched. It was too late to steal a car. This Heero Yuy guy would have checked the employee lots first. I knew that because that was what I would have done.

“Do me a favor,” I repeated and when Duo turned toward me, I asked, “if Yuy looks unsteady, let me handle him.”

Duo blinked. “Babe,” he breathed, curling a hand around my arm. We were the only ones in the refreshments corner. No one had been in or out of the restrooms in the past twenty minutes. “First off, Heero is never unsteady. It could be the zombie werewolf alien apocalypse and he’d be solid.”

I squinted. “And second?”

“If anything bad happens to the asshole, I will lose my brother for good.”

With a huff, I negotiated, “Then let me go in with you.”

“Negative. Gonna need you to give me the green light on a clear exit.” He gave me a lopsided smile. “I know you don’t like this part of the plan.”

An understatement.

“But I’ll be fine. Just keep the engine running.” He winked, clicking his tongue and cocking a finger-gun at me as he shifted toward the glass doors.

Jaw clenched, I watched him meander along the covered sidewalk, idly gazing through shop windows. Phone in hand, I tracked his progress, poised to act the moment I felt silent vibrations. He’d promised to send a 911 text if he found himself in danger.

But it looked like Yuy had come alone.

He climbed out of his vehicle and jogged over to a bench. His hands were empty and his lips still. He didn’t fidget with any sort of short-range communication device favored by government agents during ops. All points in his favor.

But the longer I observed him, the less I liked the guy. He was Duo’s age and I recalled that Duo had mentioned they’d been recruited together. They had history and he had looks: tousled dark brown hair and brilliant, blue eyes. He was fit as hell and I crossed my arms over my chest, trying not to regret all the mornings I’d spent in bed with Duo instead of doing my regular cardio routine.

No, I did not like Yuy. Didn’t care that he was with Duo’s older brother. If this spook wasn’t one of Duo’s exes, then why?

I was so busy hating the attractive, competent image he projected from a distance that it took me a moment to realize what was really getting to me. Yuy moved with economy and alertness. His cheeks were clean shaven. His hair washed probably just that morning. Clothes neat. Shoelaces double-knotted. The man’s lover had been missing for over two weeks and he looked perfectly presentable. Because being anything less would have gotten him noticed by people who could make his life more miserable than it already was.

It was another lesson that I’d learned at a very young age. And just look how I’d turned out.

No, I was not liking this Yuy guy one bit.

He didn’t look over as Duo hesitated in front of the bookstore and then ducked inside. The motion of the door swinging shut caught his eye, though, and he glanced over. Scanned the books in the front display. Checked his watch. Sighed. Crossed his arms. Bounced his right knee. Precisely two minutes after Duo had entered, Yuy stood and marched inside after him.

Two minutes was plenty of time for Duo to find the store’s stock of atlases. I just hoped he wouldn’t end up having to hide behind one of them.

A soft buzz. My phone. I lifted it up and--not a distress message. It was a call. From Duo. I opened the line and listened.

“What’daya got, Yuy?”

Duo’s voice was flattened by distance. He was probably holding his phone in his lowered hand. Or perhaps he’d tucked it alongside the cover of a book.

“Solo,” Yuy rasped, “visited Irongate Prison once a month, every month, like clockwork. Except for most recently. He went back after only three days.” There was a pause.

“Just enough time to dig up some dirt and then go back for a confirmation.”

“What in the hell could Zechs Merquise tell him that was so fucking important?”

“His royal highness the Lightning Count won’t talk to you, huh?”

Frustrated silence thrummed over the line. “He says he doesn’t speak to anyone whose last name isn’t Maxwell.”

My hand clenched around the phone.

“Shit,” Duo hissed. “I assume you can set it up?”

“If we leave now, we’ll arrive thirty minutes before the night warden clocks in.”

“Right.”

“Follow me.”

“No. Don’t know who’s got eyes on you, man. Can’t risk it. I’ll see you there.”

“Maxwell--!”

“Do not make me deck you in the pastry section. Because I’ll do it.”

“Hm. Do not be late or we’ll lose another day.”

“Copy that. Just--Heero?”

“What?”

“Don’t be stupid.”

Yuy made no reply to that.

A moment later, there came a faint rustle. Yuy blurted, “What are you doing?”

“What’s it look like? I’m buying a book. That’s what people do in bookstores. Get lost.”

I listened to a whole lot of nothing as Duo presumably approached the sales counter. I watched as Yuy left the store empty-handed.

And then Duo’s voice was on the line, close and clear and aimed at me. “Hey.”

“Green light,” I reported, keeping the phone to my ear and my eyes on the premises.

“That’ll be ten-sixty-two,” the cashier said over the still-open line and I went to go get the engine warmed up. Putting the phone on speaker, I navigated out of the employee parking zone and idled through the parking lot. Yuy’s SUV was gone. I pulled up at a stop sign and the passenger door opened without fuss or fanfare. Duo plopped into the passenger seat with a crinkle of plastic shopping bag.

He reached over and hung up my phone.

I didn’t congratulate him on not getting shot or arrested. This day wasn’t over yet, and considering our next destination, it was probably going to get a lot worse. “What’d you buy?” I asked instead, following the curving streets past additional clusters of shops with nearly vacant parking lots.

He pulled out a tome and lifted it up. I glanced over. Smirked and snorted.

“Good choice.”

“Hell yeah.” Duo cradled the book in his hands, looking fucking pleased with himself. “Everyone needs a copy of The Duct Tape Survival Handbook.”

I even had a couple of rolls stashed in the trunk, so we were good to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The poem Duo reads to Trowa is a very mangled variation on “How Not to Have to Dry the Dishes” by Shel Silverstein. This poem (and many of the others in this particular book) explain so much of my sense of humor.


	4. “You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Duo POV

“Who is Zechs Merquise?” Trowa wanted to know as soon as civilization was a tiny smudge in the rear view mirror. It wasn’t an unreasonable question; I just didn’t know what to tell him first. He both prompted and double-checked: “The Lightning Count?”

“Yeah, you heard that right.”

I stopped flipping through the pages of my purchase, slightly disappointed that there was a whole section devoted to outlining the body of a dead victim with duct tape. I mean, hell, didn’t everyone already know that one?

Thumping the book against my palm, I answered, “Zechs Merquise, a.k.a., the Lightning Count, is serving twenty-two consecutive life sentences for what amounts to acts of terrorism. The Center ran him down and finally collared him about three years ago. Solo was lead agent.”

Trowa was quiet as he added up all those monthly visits. And then visibly hesitated over what to multiply that number with. I saved him the headache of ball-parking it:

“It’s all off the books, Tro. Solo goes because he’s got to.”

“So it’s personal.”

“Hella personal.” I slouched back, settled in, and drawled, “See, once upon a time, there were these two boys, Solo Maxwell and Milliardo Peacecraft. The best of friends. The one was the grandson of a pastor; the other was the son of the only man richer than God. Met in Sunday school and promptly started putting crickets under the pews and silly putty in the hymn books.”

Trowa hummed appreciatively. “I missed out.”

I snorted even though it wasn’t funny: all the things Trowa had been deprived of as a kid. Just thinking about what he’d been forced to survive made me want to blow something up.

But I kept it light: “You sure did. On it went for years -- those two little shits livening up the Sunday sermons until folks were just about ready to start placing bets on whether or not they’d smeared honey on the seats or rigged party crackers to blow when the vestibule door opened… again. But then, one day a couple of months after he turned thirteen, Mill just disappeared. Gone. Vanished.”

Turning to the window, I let the blurring scenery soothe me through the memories of that endlessly frantic time. If I looked back too closely, maybe I’d finally see what had gone wrong, but it was too late to change any of it. And I just wasn’t budgeted for that much heartache today.

I said, “Solo was right there out front leading the search. Riding his bicycle all over town. Skipping school. Getting in people’s faces. Days turned into weeks. Months. Everyone gave up, even the Peacecrafts, but not Solo. He recruited his stalwart, resourceful, and sensible younger brother to help him dig up dirt and run down leads, act as lookout and squeeze through bathroom windows.” My lips quirked recalling how our parents had seemed to grow gray hair overnight.

“So… what you’re saying is you’ve got a juvie record.”

He sounded impressed and I had to laugh, though it wasn’t funny. Wasn’t funny at all. Then or now. “Only by the good grace of Detective Dermail, I do not. Solo, either.” Slapping my thigh, I recalled, “Hell, Solo must have spent more time in the police station hassling Dermail than he ever did in school.” It was only by the grace of my brother’s God-given intellect that he’d managed to pass any of his classes. “And every time Solo was over there getting in the detective’s face, I’d sneak around the corner to Howard’s.”

Well, that wasn’t wholly true: I’d spent a lot of time at Howard’s when Solo was home moping because he’d been grounded for the thousandth time.

Trowa took a hand off the wheel and reached out, gripping my fingers. And with that one gesture, I knew that he knew just how lonely I’d been. Solo’s obsession had always come first, and he’d been the one running the show. In order to claim a place at my brother’s side, I’d had to accept that. _“There goes Solo Maxwell’s little brother,”_ people would say, but not once had I ever overheard anyone flip the script: Duo Maxwell had never had a big brother. Not really.

Sucking in a deep breath, I continued, “So, years passed and Solo grew up to be a cop. A damn motivated one. Busted his ass and made detective faster than anyone in the history of ever. Got himself noticed by federal agencies. Let himself be recruited. Busted his ass some more. Was given a team of his own. And when he was handed this case -- homegrown terrorist Zechs Merquise -- well, it was only a matter of time before Solo caught him.”

“You were there,” Trowa realized. Something in my tone or wry expression had clued him in.

“Sure was. Saw the look on Solo’s face when he took a gander of the suspect’s photo for the first time.”

Trowa connected the dots: “He’d remembered Merquise from his friend’s disappearance.”

I tilted my head his way and delivered the punchline: “Zechs Merquise was Milliardo Peacecraft.”

Trowa gaped. Stared and blinked at the road for a solid ten seconds. And then he went ahead and proved how smart and intuitive he was -- not that I’d ever need more proof of how impossible it would be to out-think Trowa Barton. He said, “Solo’s been trying to figure out who’s responsible. For turning his friend into a killer.”

“Yup. And it sounds like he got an answer to that about eighteen days ago.”

With a slow nod, Trowa asked one and only one question of the shitstorm we found ourselves in: “Revenge or justice?”

“Oh, revenge. Definitely revenge.”

Another nod. This one was a little distracted: Tro was shifting information and priorities around. Setting up his headspace for the next job. God, I hated what this was doing to him. What it might end up doing to him. The last thing I wanted was for Trowa to kill again. He’d shed that life. Happily, too. Dragging him back into the darkness and letting those demons dig their claws deeper into him -- that wasn’t right. That was so far past the turnoff to “all right” that it was veering into the realm of “unforgivable.”

“Will Merquise talk to you?”

I snapped out of my wallowing. “Hm? Yeah. Pretty sure he will. He knows me.”

“He know you’ve been off the grid for fifteen months?”

A sign for Irongate Federal Prison flashed past. How did Trowa always have such perfect fucking timing? I said, “I guess we’ll find out.”

I directed Trowa to stay in the car while I went in with Yuy: “Hey, if there’s a riot and the place goes into lockdown, gonna need a guy on the outside to bust in after us.”

Trowa glanced Yuy’s way with a derisive glare that just about caused the already frigid parking lot to ice over. Oh, boy. No wonder Yuy wasn’t stomping over here. Hell, despite the half of the parking lot that stretched out between our vehicles, he’d probably felt that arctic blast. 100%.

Ignoring Heero’s pointed look at his wristwatch, I playfully accused Trowa, “You’re jealous, aren’t you?”

“Give me one reason why I shouldn’t be.”

I bit back a laugh and curled a hand around the back of my homicidal lover’s neck. “Hey, he’s my brother’s main squeeze. Have a heart.”

“So long as it’s yours.”

“Yeah, babe. It is. It’s all yours.”

“In that case, I guess I’ll live.”

God, it was totally unfair that Trowa Barton was at his funniest when he was dead ass serious. I gave his waist a squeeze, just above one of his three ticklish zones, and then I sauntered over to Heero. I could tell just how badly he wanted to manhandle me up to the gate at a brisk speed walk, but I made myself take the extra ten seconds. Not because I couldn’t understand his sense of urgency -- I totally did -- but because it was never easy to walk away from Trowa: not now; not whenever I set out to find an Internet connection with a minimum of anonymity; and definitely not fifteen months ago.

Heero flashed his badge and the guard waved us through. Buzzers and the clang of metal bolts. We moved through the doors, past the metal detectors, and then it was arms up for a thorough pat-down. The warden met us on the other side of security check.

“Merquise is being brought over from his cell now,” the man reported in a differential tone and I had to wonder just what kind of favor he owed Heero Yuy. That was a story I’d probably never get to hear; I wasn’t carrying my need-to-know club card anymore.

More guard posts and electronically sealed gates. It’d only been three damn minutes since I’d walked though the door of this hellhole and I was already identifying with a rat in a maze.

The warden didn’t gesture or prompt us on where to go. But then, it wasn’t as if this was Yuy’s first visit.

When he moved to enter the interview room with me, I put out a hand. “You brought me in to get the job done. Lemme do it.”

Glowering, he did.

I nodded for the prison guard to open the door. I stepped over the threshold. I looked Milliardo Peacecraft right in the eyes as I crossed the concrete room to the vacant metal chair opposite his perch. They’d cuffed him to the table. Before walking in here, I would have scoffed at the safety measure: I was the last person -- or, well, the second-to-last person... or maybe third -- that he’d ever be inclined to harm. But the years had not been kind to him. The last three especially.

“Duo,” he grated out. That smoker’s rasp of his was even more pronounced than it had been during his interrogation. “It’s good to see you.”

I sat. Propped my elbows up on the table, mirroring his pose. Hell, it was the only remotely comfortable pose that his anchored restraints permitted. His lips quirked at the gesture.

“Some things never change,” he observed of my willingness to accommodate.

“Some things can’t,” I answered, “after they’ve been drummed into you for so long.”

“Hm. True. Here you are. Following your big brother around like a little lost puppy. Again.”

Oh, how I burned to deny it, but hell I remembered my pathological persistence as a kid. Always inviting myself along on Solo and Mill’s adventures. I lifted a shoulder. “Eh, gets me within range to land a good punch.”

Merquise laughed, thin and scratchy. I wondered who was keeping him flush with menthol cigarettes. “Now that,” he mused, “makes me wish I’d stuck around.”

And that was quite the admission. He was serving twenty-two consecutive life sentences because he hadn’t expressed an iota of remorse for his crimes.

I didn’t ask why he’d taken off at the age of thirteen. Didn’t ask why he’d swung back through the neighborhood two years later and set fire to his childhood home in the dead of night. Both of his parents had been killed. His sister had been away at some fancy equestrian summer camp.

“A test of loyalty,” he’d eventually said of the blaze, summing up and opening up dozens of questions.

Now, I speculated, “You finally gave Solo an answer. Told him who it was that first put you up to it. Why now?” I quirked a brow and guessed, “Six months left to live?”

That made him laugh. “Something like that. But doomsday is sooner than you’d think.”

So that was what this was about. “When?”

“End of the month.”

“How do you know?”

“I set it up.”

“Why bother cluing us in?”

He shrugged. “Hasn’t happened yet, so it’ll never be mine.” Locking those ice blue eyes on me, he growled, “I put it together. It should be mine. This is how I make sure it’ll never be anyone else’s.”

Yeah, OK. Maybe Zechs Merquise really was that petty. But I would have bet that, deep down, there was still a tiny piece of Milliardo Peacecraft just barely hanging on. And if I was right about that, then which was it: either that last surviving fragment of a confused teenager was still hoping Solo would be able to save him, or he was relishing his success at having shoved his childhood best friend into the path of a bullet.

“So you sent my brother -- your best friend -- on a suicide mission?”

He leaned back, shoulders slumped and hands shaking so hard he curled them into fists. “He wasn’t supposed to go in himself. He promised me he wouldn’t.”

“Yeah, well, it’s been a while so maybe it slipped your mind, but I’m the one who doesn’t lie.”

Whether he’d forgotten or not, Merquise didn’t let on. He cut to the chase. “There’s only one way to save the lives of thousands of innocent people now: finish what your brother started.”

I braced myself for the punchline. And I sure as hell hoped that whatever dumb schmuck was on the other side of the two-way mirror was bracing for Heero Yuy’s epic, apeshit reaction. Because the man across from me was about to drop one hell of a bomb.

With a sympathetic smile, he rumbled, “Blow the compound and everyone in it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The backstory in this chapter (Solo and Milliardo's childhood friendship) was geniously hinted at in "Free Ride" by Kangofu_CB. The line about Solo having spent years searching for someone -- now we know who that "someone" is. (^_^)


	5. “It doesn’t matter, I’m not leaving you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trowa POV
> 
> Warnings: mention of past abuse

I had only ever dreaded a future with Duo one time.

Not because the rush of attraction had faded or the sense of novelty had diminished. No, it was my own headspace which had seemed to expand **_**beyond**_** those things, showing me a horizon that was pulling me into the sky itself. No solid ground beneath my feet. No handholds to grasp. I was falling in love.

Having never dared before -- having never even been tempted before I’d met Duo -- I hadn’t realized how much terror could fill a heart that had cracked open.

Cathy had noticed.

> Reaching across the professionally cleaned island in her state-of-the-art kitchen, she’d covered one of my shaking hands with both of hers. “Talk to me, Tweedledee.”
> 
> Tweedledum and Tweedledee, my sister and me. Two peas in a pod. She’d always been my best friend, and I hers.
> 
> I’d stared at my hands, the fine tremor that made me hesitate to reach for the even finer china coffee cup that she’d slid in my direction. “I met someone.”
> 
> “Uh-hmm,” she’d coaxed, leaning an elbow on the countertop and relaxing into her seat. “Anyone I know?”
> 
> “Not yet, but you’ve heard a lot about him. From James.”
> 
> It had only taken her a moment to put it together. “Not Duo?”
> 
> Of course Duo. “He’s…” Words failed me. Nothing captured his breadth and depth. Or the magical nuance of his smile.
> 
> She’d rubbed both thumbs over the back of my chilled hand. It was ridiculous how cold my skin was. It was almost June.
> 
> I’d told her, “He hasn’t seen my scars yet. The bad ones.” He’d noticed the one on my wrist back at the bookstore cafe. And I’d dared to push my shirt sleeves up my forearms last night when he’d come over for dinner and a jigsaw puzzle. I hadn’t minded him seeing those scars, the ones I’d gained when I’d fought back. Defended myself. There were others, though. Ones from when I’d been blindsided and helpless. Most of the time, I could pretend they weren’t there; I didn’t have much reason to look at my own back in the mirror. But Duo would see them, one day. He’d see them and then so would I. I’d see them reflected back at me through his eyes. I’d have to admit that they were in the room with me… always. That the pain had been real.
> 
> The taste of blood on the tip of my tongue -- I’d gnawed a crack in my chapped lip open -- and it was familiar like a stray cat that circles the neighborhood garbage cans.
> 
> Cathy’s brow had titled against the side of my head. “Show him.”
> 
> “I don’t think I can.”
> 
> “Don’t think,” she’d advised. And then she’d encouraged, “You can.”
> 
> I’d sighed and glanced toward the spacious living room of the posh, high rise apartment. Floor-to-ceiling windows spanned the length of the adjacent room. I’d thought we’d come so far, put so much distance between ourselves and the abyss, but it was still there. Just over my shoulder. Literally.
> 
> “If you want this,” Cathy had urged, “if you want Duo, then you have to show him the scars.”
> 
> Head bowed, I’d heaved a sigh.
> 
> She’d kissed my cheek. “My little Trowa. Be the man you want to be for him.”
> 
> “It’s hard.”
> 
> “Only when you stop and think about it. So don’t think.” She’d squeezed my wrist. Patted my arm. “He needs you to show him. He needs to be involved and informed. It’s the only way forward.”

She’d been right. Of course. Which was how I knew that I wasn’t making a mistake now. And why Duo hadn’t tried to shut me out, hadn’t tried harder to convince me to let him do all this alone.

From a strategic standpoint, perhaps I should have hung back. Should have let Duo ride with Yuy out to the prison and followed at a distance. But the mere thought of it had left me bristling. I’d been wrong before when I’d told myself I was Duo’s backup. I was his partner. I needed to be involved and informed if I was going to be of any use to him.

So when Heero Yuy looked at me and said, “Refreshment corner,” and then rattled off my car’s plate number and a description of the employee vehicles I’d parked between at the outlet mall, I didn’t let myself get offended. I wasn’t here for a pissing contest. I was here for Duo.

Ignoring the implied insult, I turned my attention to my lover. “Reliable intel on the target?”

“Uh, yeah,” he mumbled, rubbing the back of his neck. We’d found another motel that was a carbon copy of last night’s. I’d worn a newsboy cap and a pair of round, wire-framed glasses for my check-in performance. Now we were in Yuy’s room, contemplating an op that had every chance of jumping sideways before going pear-shaped.

And Duo didn’t even have twenty-four hours’ worth of field experience. Academy training or not, on-site involvement was asking too much of someone whose typical workday had been confined to an office and electronics lab.

“The target is not gonna be easy to take,” Duo warned me. He asked Yuy, “How recent is your data?”

“Not very,” he drawled. “Reports of regular facility upgrades and construction work make it hard to trust what we do have.”

But he pulled up the schematics on his tablet regardless.

He didn’t hesitate to share it with Duo. I waited patiently, arms and legs crossed as I leaned back against the desk-vanity-entertainment center.

Elbows braced on his knees, hunched down in the room’s only desk chair, my lover swiped back and forth between several screens before closing his eyes and passing the device back to Yuy. “I’ve got nothing. But Tro might have some useful input.”

Yuy glared at me.

I stared back.

“Solo Maxwell knocked you out and strapped you in a bomb vest.”

I lifted a brow. “I’ll have to take your word for it.” I still couldn’t recall the incident.

But Yuy seemed to think I was giving him attitude. His jaw clenched. To Duo, he declared, “This isn’t going to work. I need people I can trust.”

Of all the asinine assumptions. “You need people who are competent. At least give me the basics.” I needlessly tacked on, “You could always try to shoot me later.”

Duo stiffened. “Not funny, Tro.”

“I wasn’t implying the shot would be any good.”

Yuy’s lips twitched into the ghost of a cocky grin. “Oh, it would be.”

Ah. “Are you actually concerned about me making the situation worse than it already is?” I honestly doubted that was even possible. If I was correctly understanding the sparse summary Duo had given me.

Yuy sat back, drew a breath, and waved for Duo to share the pertinent details.

He did. “It’s a compound just across the state line. White Fang.”

I froze. “Randolf Quinze.”

Yuy’s chin snapped up, but I only had eyes for Duo, for the way each ounce of defeat melted from his posture.

“You know the leader of White Fang?” Yuy challenged, but my answer was for Duo:

“And he knows me. I could get in.”

Duo’s eyes widened. He started shaking his head, but I pressed my fingers softly over his mouth. He needed to listen to what I was about to say. To explain. I’d paid more than one visit to that compound. Khushrenada had brought me along not just to supplement his own personal security but to snoop. The dirt I’d dug up on that self-righteous windbag had guaranteed that he’d comply with any and all of Khushrenada’s demands. But, as it had turned out, blackmail hadn’t been necessary. They’d reached an agreement though boring, garden-variety negotiation.

“Quinze and Khushrenada collaborated on real estate schemes,” I confided. “In order to make a crime look coincidental, a lot of coordination is required. I was last in that compound eighteen months ago.” I asked Yuy, “How old is your data?”

Grudgingly, he admitted, “Older than that.”

Duo grasped my wrist and tugged my hand away from his lips. “I can’t let you do this.”

Oh? Oh. Right. “We don’t have time to go through the usual channels,” I realized.

So much for giving Yuy’s files an update. A raid on the compound might come in time to prevent whatever atrocity Merquise had helped orchestrate, but it would probably be too late for Solo Maxwell. If his cover was still intact, then I needed to make sure it wasn’t blown. And if White Fang had made him for an agent… well, there was only so much torment a man could take before he broke. The clock was ticking.

“I can’t lose you, too,” Duo informed me and my heart ached for him, for the fear in his eyes. His brother could be dead already. Or worse: broken beyond repair.

I leaned in close enough for my bangs to tickle Duo’s nose. Taking his face in my hands, I insisted. “You can’t ask me to live with this look in your eyes, day after day.”

“A pair of dark shades will fix that.”

Well, at least he wasn’t entertaining the possibility of breaking off the engagement, pushing me away, sending me home. But the ultimatum was there, a shadow lurking in the room with us. I banished it for good: “It doesn’t matter. I’m not leaving you.”

“They’ll kill you.”

“Not on sight.”

Duo sucked in a fast, angry breath which I hurried to talk over.

“As far as they know, I’m out of work. Khushrenada made no secret of what I can do. Fifteen months is a long time to go without a paycheck.”

Yuy played Devil’s advocate: “They’ll suspect you turned on your boss in exchange for immunity.”

I couldn’t allow myself to touch Duo as I answered Yuy’s challenge. With icy fury, I informed him, “There’s no immunity for over a dozen life sentences.”

Duo’s hand -- so warm it was shocking -- landed on my thigh. I almost had to close my eyes against the intensity of it.

“I know my way around.” Daring to place a hand on Duo’s shoulder, I answered my lover’s wordless plea with both what I knew and what I knew had the best chance of meeting with success: “Duct work, vents, hardware. I go in the front. Yuy goes in the back. You guide him in with the maps I’ll give you.”

It wasn’t much of a plan. I had no access codes to offer. No details on guard rotation or available firepower. It wasn’t really a plan at all. It was an opportunity. No more, no less.

But if we didn’t take it, I was certain Duo would regret it for the rest of our lives.

“I don’t like this,” Duo rasped, his fingers digging into muscle. I could feel the crescents of his nails though the weave of my jeans.

“There’s plenty to like,” I argued gently in response to his wide, dark eyes. “We get to prove the Lightning Count wrong: there is another way.”

A way that ensured Solo Maxwell wasn’t at ground zero when the time came. Wasn’t a fleeting thought and fading memory in the middle of a smoking crater. We were not giving up. We were not leaving a man down.

I was inclined to despise Merquise for even suggesting it. Although, to be fair, at the time of his meeting with Duo, he’d had no idea about the secret weapon in all of this: me.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a thing I wanna say (that Trowa, Duo, and Heero think is too obvious to talk about) -- if they call the Center and launch an op to raid the compound en mass, then odds are that Solo will be executed before anyone can even bust in the door. Or Solo will be taken as a hostage by Quinze and then the Center will probably have to kill both of them (because Quinze is not going to surrender quietly and the authorities will be at a disadvantage on his turf). Now, say Heero doesn’t launch a full-scale assault on the compound. Unfortunately, it’ll take even more time to put together and get approval for a stealth op, and by then Solo would probably be dead. So, basically, the only way they can save Solo (if he’s still alive) is by acting NOW. They’ve got to get inside the compound without setting off any alarms. Enter: Trowa.
> 
> Also, it’s not too late for you to tell me what you thought of Zechs’ story arc (that was revealed in the previous chapter) or Duo and Solo’s childhood?? Like... if you wanna say a thing (and make a writer happy). (^_^)


	6. “You owe me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trowa POV
> 
> Warnings: reference to sexytimes

The first time I’d given myself to Duo -- the first time I’d opened my body to anyone, invited them to take and invade and possess -- had been an unmitigated disaster.

> “Trowa, baby, you’re not ready for this,” Duo had purred, petting my hair and shoulders and back as I’d clutched his arms hard enough to bruise.
> 
> “I want this.” That much I’d been absolutely sure of. “Try again,” I’d commanded. His fingers still glistened with lube and I was aching to feel him inside, but every time his touch drifted near, my whole body had locked down. Without my consent. And it pissed me off.
> 
> Duo had leaned back and pressed his forehead to mine. “You want it. OK. Someday, but not today. I’m not going anywhere.” Soft lips against my cheek, my nose, my chin. “One step at a time. Together, Tro. One step at a time.”
> 
> Duo had stayed the whole night even though we’d done little else besides hold onto one another. The feel of bare skin aimlessly shifting against bare skin. Something else I’d never allowed before. He’d stayed and, in the morning, we’d made breakfast together.
> 
> He’d lingered, giving me light banter and casual touches, until the last possible minute. The hobby shop opened at ten o’clock.
> 
> “I’ll call you tonight,” Duo had promised with a kiss goodbye.
> 
> I couldn’t remember what I’d done with myself for the day, but I remembered that he’d kept his promise. He’d called.
> 
> “I’m sorry,” I’d blurted.
> 
> “I’m not,” he’d replied. “I’ll never be sorry for just being with you.”
> 
> He’d already held my heart at that point, so it must have been my soul that I’d felt speeding toward him over the phone line.
> 
> The second time, I’d been drunk. Maybe-mostly-on-purpose kind of drunk. I’d tugged his arms around me, guiding both nimble hands to my ass. “Duo…”
> 
> “I’m too drunk, baby,” he’d sighed out, and it had only been with the benefit of hindsight and some aspirin the next morning that I’d realized the truth: Duo hadn’t been too drunk at all. I’d been the one three sheets to the wind.
> 
> “You lied to me,” I’d accused, more furious with myself than I could ever imagine being with him, but he’d been there, a convenient target for my anger.
> 
> He’d hesitated on the threshold of my apartment. We’d made plans to go to James’ summer drama camp finale that night, but all I’d wanted was to ruin anything and everything that crossed my path. Standing in the hall, Duo had shaken his head. “I didn’t lie. Even one beer is too drunk.” He’d bit his lip, lowered his head and sighed. “Just because we passed the point of no return doesn’t mean we can’t still hurt each other. Or make mistakes.”
> 
> I’d clutched the door tighter, a heartbeat away from slamming it shut in his face.
> 
> “Let me be good to you, Trowa.”
> 
> _Let me._
> 
> It had hit me then -- Duo was waiting for me to make a choice. I had to _choose_ to let him in, not force myself to open up. I had to be willing or we’d never… Never. We’d be nothing together.
> 
> I’d opened the door all the way. “I’m sorry.”
> 
> “Don’t be sorry,” Duo had urged, moving to wrap me up in his arms. “Just be you. And we’ll be OK.”

I pulled a jean shirt on over my turtleneck, zipped up my backpack, and met Duo’s stern expression. He was standing in front of the hotel room door, arms crossed over his chest. I knew he wasn’t going to fight me on this, not physically, anyway. If he were seriously thinking about throwing a punch, his hands would be free.

“We’ll be OK,” I promised.

He swallowed. “You owe me.”

“Do I?”

“Yes, Goddamn it.”

I closed the distance between us. Curled my hands around his arms and guided his head to my shoulder. “You already have my body, heart, and soul. Don’t tell me there’s more?”

“There is,” he stubbornly pressed, sucking in a breath and leaning back. “You owe me the rest of our lives.”

Ah. “You’re right.” I’d promised to marry him someday. “I owe you.”

He would have said more -- I would have let him say more -- but a sharp knock punctured the moment. Duo had mentioned that Yuy was a sniper. I could believe it. Now more than ever.

But that didn’t change the fact that it was time to go.

I reminded Duo, “I know my limits.”

“But do you know theirs?”

There was no easy way to say this. “I know their pressure points. I won’t sit back and quietly take whatever they dish out.”

“I don’t want this for you.”

“I know.” But we were out of options. I slid my ring off and pressed it into Duo’s palm, curling his fingers securely around it. “I love you.”

“Be safe, damn it.”

Outside, the sound of an engine roared to life and then idled impatiently. Duo and Yuy would have a lot of ground to cover given that they wouldn’t be approaching the facility directly.

I kissed him, held onto him for just one more moment. Marveled at his strength and warmth and the fact that he loved me.

It was a long drive without Duo riding shotgun, fidgeting or sighing or fiddling with the radio. I used the stillness in the car to steel myself. I’d escaped this world once. I could and would do it a second time. As many times as I had to.

There was no guard gate to pass through. Just a dirt road with sensors along the track that monitored my progress across what appeared to be fallow fields and, at a distance, a surviving clump of forest and brush. I idled right up to the tree line and then shut off the engine. It was either that or wait for them to shut it off for me. And I hadn’t brought along any spare parts for making repairs.

Six figures in tactical gear emerged from the shadows. I kept my hands on the wheel and waited for instructions.

“Identify yourself.”

“Trowa Barton.”

I counted off the seconds as information was passed on a confidential channel.

“Step out of the car.”

I left the keys in the ignition and did as I was told. I kept my hands up. “There’s a handgun under the driver’s seat. A rifle in the trunk,” I reported.

The nearest figure nodded for me to follow. “This way.”

One man slid behind the wheel of my car. The other five escorted me off of the drive and along what seemed to be little more than a deer trail. So innocuous. But it’s the humblest of things that have the power to topple giants.

The camouflaged entrance to White Fang’s underground bunker complex was precisely where I recalled it’d been on my previous visits. That was encouraging.

The trap door lifted away and I made my way down the stairs that descended into the facility. My escort did not accompany me. There was little point -- this corridor was a closed system. Only one way in and one way out. The operators at the security hub had eyes on me with every step I took.

My hands were still up when I reached the bottom and faced the airlock.

With a metallic clang, the door came ajar without anyone asking me to state my business, which was either a very good sign or a very bad one. But it was too late to turn back.

Four more escorts -- armed men in fatigues -- herded me toward the reception area. The parlor, Treize had snidely termed it. Its concrete walls and floors and metal furniture mocked the term.

I didn’t bother to take a seat. Hands still raised, I stood in the center of the room and waited.

A minute passed. Then two. And just as I’d counted off the fifth, the door opened and Randolf Quinze sauntered in.

“Mister Barton,” he greeted in that obnoxious, nasal whine of his. “What a surprise.”

“Is it?”

“Rumor has it you retired.”

I shrugged. “The quiet life -- it’s all false advertising.”

“Who are you working for today?”

“You’re looking at a free agent.”

He gestured for me to sit at an uncomfortably spartan conference table. I obliged and he took the seat opposite. “So, you’re here about a job.”

“You’re aware of my skill set.”

“And I could find many uses for it, too.” He smiled but with his next breath warned, “If you are sympathetic to our cause.”

I didn’t snort, but it was a near thing. Returning his speculative squint with a bland expression, I murmured, “I’m at a… life crossroads.”

“Aren’t we all.”

I folded my hands in my lap.

“Perhaps there is something you could assist us with.”

I drummed the fingers of my right hand over my left as Quinze silently deliberated. He didn’t trust me. Of that I was certain. But oh the things I could tell him about his rivals. Such as Bartholomew Dekim. Another of Khushrenada’s contacts. A prickly arms dealer that even a man like Quinze wouldn’t dare approach without a formal introduction.

I waited.

He came to a decision. “This way, Mister Barton.”

The interior of the compound hadn’t changed. Identical corridors, stairwells, and doors. Numbers spray painted on dull surfaces for the purpose of differentiating one from the other.

Down two flights of stairs and tucked into the northeast wing of the bunker, Quinze finally indicated our destination with a gesture worthy of pomp and circumstance.

“Detention cell,” I assessed. “Interrogation?”

“Uh hm.”

“Who are we interrogating?” I inquired idly, half expecting him to name me.

He lifted his left forearm and revealed a modified wristwatch beneath his shirt sleeve. He pressed his thumb to the screen and, beside the door, a keypad lit up. With a glance to the numbers now showing on the watch’s face, he punched in the code and the door opened on a grating squeal.

And within the deary, inhospitable cell was one occupant. A figure slumped in the far corner wearing little more than a stained hospital gown. A man who was vaguely familiar. He lifted his chin and smiled, teeth gleaming in the flicker of the overhead fluorescent light. I didn’t need to see his eyes to be certain: I was looking at Solo Maxwell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was developing this plotline, I realized what a disservice I’d done Trowa and Duo in this particular AU. I mean, their relationship would have had some seriously rocky moments no matter how badly they’d both wanted it. The hardships in Trowa’s past would make him push back, wait to be disappointed, and maybe even make him believe that he wasn’t worth Duo's time. That’s a lot to overcome. (And then there’s not just Trowa’s past rearing its ugly head, but Duo’s, too. But since Trowa seems more prone to introspection in his POV, then that’s whose side of the story we get.) I still don’t think I do it justice here in this story (thus far), but I wanted to acknowledge how brave and strong he and Duo are for sticking with it and making it work.


	7. “Why are you crying?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trowa POV
> 
> Warnings: reference to torture, reference to sexytimes, reference to past child abuse, violence and gore via badassery, death (so, basically, just another day at the office for Trowa)

“Seven days and no luck?” I assessed, eyeing the varied colors of Solo’s visible bruises.

“Six, actually,” Quinze retorted, probably more out of principle than because he’d actually kept track.

I nodded, noting the heavy cuffs on the captive’s wrists and ankles. Not your standard restraints. Too bulky. An idea occurred to me that I did not like at all, but I set it aside for the time being. “I’ll need to assess his condition for myself.”

Quinze pressed his right thumb to the face of his not-wristwatch and then pushed a button along the side of the casing. “Nichol, you and your team to interrogation. Now.”

There wasn’t much else to look at except for Solo’s huddled form, so that was what I did as we waited for additional men to arrive. I studied Solo Maxwell’s flat gaze and swollen lip. Yes, I had seen him before…

> “Hey, how about that Glock?”
> 
> I’d obliged, carefully lifting the heavy handgun from the case for the customer’s inspection. I hadn’t seen him in here before, but that was nothing unusual. It was the repeat customers that I was most wary of. No one would ever _need_ more than two or three guns… unless they were a contract killer. Like me.
> 
> “Does it come with a laser sight?”
> 
> “Any of these three will fit,” I’d answered, laying out the hardware on the countertop.
> 
> He’d paused and looked up at me. With a wry expression, he’d mused, “This ain’t your personal favorite, is it?”
> 
> “It is if I’m being charged by a bear.”
> 
> He’d chuckled, nodded in agreement. “Got a cabin up north. Bears are a definite possibility.”
> 
> “There’s a mandatory 24-hour processing wait,” I’d said. This was usually the point upon which a sale teetered. A guy looking to defend himself from future bear encounters probably wouldn’t mind the delay so long as he could spend the time well away from bears and in the comforts of civilization. A guy hoping to blow his wife’s boyfriend’s head off would take his shopping list to the street. Figuring out which gun would get the job done was over half the battle, hence the need for a stop by a place like DKS.
> 
> “Yeah.” He hadn’t sound surprised. “But I haven’t got any ID on me today.”
> 
> “That would make the wait considerably longer.”
> 
> He’d grinned but quickly ducked his head. “What’s ammo gonna cost me?”
> 
> I’d told him and he’d told me he’d be back. Given the circumstances, I’d assumed he meant he intended to complete the purchase. But no, of course not. He’d circled around, snuck up behind me outside of my apartment building, and knocked me out. Suited me up in a bomb vest. Started the countdown to the end of life as I’d known it.

A fist pounded on the metal door and Quinze keyed it open. Four men entered.

“Get him on his feet,” Quinze ordered and Solo was manhandled upright. He didn’t resist, but didn’t give any appreciable cooperation, either. When Quinze gestured for me to go ahead with my inspection, I circled the prisoner once before untying the dirty smock.

Fading bruises. Recent lash marks. Fresh burns. But I didn’t see any signs of electrocution. A small comfort given the chapped area around his mouth from water boarding.

“How many questions do you want him to answer?” I asked, only bothering to knot the topmost set of ties together.

“Just a few.”

I nodded. “I’ll need a couple of things. Who do I see about logistics?”

“Nichol will take care of you.”

Jerking my chin in Solo’s direction, I asked, “He have any food in him?” 

“No.”

“Good.” Choking was a real possibility in situations like this one and if a detainee’s airway was disrupted, answers wouldn’t be forthcoming. I turned toward the man who was presumably Nichol; the other three were busy hustling the prisoner toward the door and out of the room. Apparently, this wasn’t where serious questioning happened. “Hardware?” I prompted.

Quinze gave a nod and Nichol led the way.

“I remember you,” Nichol said after we’d left the detention level. “From Khushrenada’s visits.”

“How nice to have an admirer,” I snarked flatly.

He stiffened. Growled: “We’ll just see about that.”

I let a faint smile out to play, killing the small talk.

He hovered in the maintenance bay as I looked over the automotive tools. The air wasn’t as thick with exhaust and machinery dust as it could have been.

As I peered into one drawer after another of the free-standing tool chests, I absently tucked my bangs behind my ear. Lifted out an awl. A vise grip. A ball peen hammer. Some pliers. I rummaged until I found a blowtorch that felt mostly full. Tested the flame control. Now all I needed was a sharp pair of wire cutters. And something to haul my equipment in.

A clean bucket would suffice, but that was apparently too much to ask for in this place. I ended up going through over half of the shelving in the room in search of one that hadn’t been used for an oil change, and then I had to scrub out the dirt and dead pill bugs.

Nichol didn’t offer to help, so I didn’t have to make an effort to further offend him.

I assembled everything and looked expectantly at my guide.

The man shook his head and, sneering, muttered, “Whatever. Like you’re even old enough to know how this shit works.”

I lowered the bucket to the floor. Turned around and tugged both of my shirts up my back. “Am I?”

“Holy fuck.”

Indeed. For weeks, I’d dreaded Duo’s reaction. The scars had never mattered much to me before, but then neither had the opinions of my casual hookups. Duo’s opinion, though, had meant everything.

> “Jesus, Tro,” he’d breathed when I’d finally let his hands wander under fabric and against bare, mangled skin.
> 
> I’d yanked my shirt off and turned in a full circle, perversely thrilled and utterly sickened all at once. “Well?” I’d prompted in a vicious monotone. “Lights off, you think?”
> 
> “No,” he’d gasped, reaching for me and kissing me with shocking depth and warmth. Overwhelming me until I’d cautiously started to respond. And then his arms had tightened around me and my passion had been unleashed like never before.
> 
> “Thank you,” he’d breathed when he’d finally pulled back. I was left panting and wanting and aching, almost beyond the point of understanding his words, so it’d taken a moment for them to register.
> 
> “Trowa, thank you for surviving all that. Thank you.”
> 
> To this day, Duo was the only one who could make me cry not with a harsh touch or words, but gentle ones.

Covering my back once again, I grabbed the bucket of supplies and said, “Quinze is waiting.”

“Uh, yeah.”

The pace was faster on the return trip. I had to stop myself from glowering as Nichol’s speculative and wary gaze slid my way every half dozen steps. Huh. I guess he’d never seen anyone who’d been doused with hot oil and boiling water… over and over.

> “Can you feel this?” Duo had whispered, ghosting his callused fingertips over my scarred back, bowing my spine into an arch of sensation.
> 
> “Every bit and then some,” I’d confessed. But it hadn’t been until I’d told him the story behind the scars that I’d been able to unlock, to relax into his touch and open to his love. He’d been right about waiting. Because after those two false starts, the third had defied words.
> 
> “Don’t stop,” I’d begged, wrapping my legs around him and clinging as tightly as I could.
> 
> “But, baby,” he’d breathed out, “you’re -- why are you crying?”
> 
> His thumbs had smeared the moisture away. “Because I’ve never felt anything this good before.”
> 
> He’d shuddered and, eyes squeezed shut, managed to find a smile. “Then you do whatever you gotta do, Tro.” And as his hips had rolled, resuming that slow, sweet rhythm, I’d groaned. I’d wept. I’d held on.
> 
> And over the months that had followed, I’d loved. I’d hoped. I’d healed.

And now Duo’s voice was following me down these dingy corridors, helping me shoulder my way past armed men, and keeping my grip firm on my hodgepodge of weapons: _“Do whatever you gotta do, Tro.”_

And I believed that he trusted me enough to repeat those words here and now.

We didn’t return to the detention cell. Nichol turned left instead of right and we stepped into the interrogation room. Quinze had claimed the only chair. The three armed men were standing by the door. Solo had curled up in the far corner, legs drawn in and arms around his bare shins. Shoulder jammed into the joining of two concrete walls. I rounded the heavy, metal table that had been placed in the center, just above the large drain set into the floor. Placing the bucket down, I approached my quarry.

“I don’t believe we’ve formally met.” I extended my hand. “Trowa Barton.”

Solo shifted slowly, turning to look at me and then my hand. In which he promptly spat.

_And so it begins…_

I grabbed and handful of his dirty hair and bodily twisted him out of his corner. Both of his hands came up to grip my arm and his bare feet lashed out.

I had him face down on the concrete in the blink of an eye. My knee to the center of his spine. A fist to his right kidney where a large bruise had just begun to fade to sickly green.

He cried out, jerking from the shock of pain.

Grabbing fistfuls of his hospital gown, I hauled him up onto his knees. Wrapped an arm around his neck and pressed against the carotid artery. He struggled, but it was brief. By the count of three, he was slumping toward the floor.

“Get him on the table,” I ordered the men. As three of them complied, I rummaged in the bucket. Selected the hammer. Weighed it in my grip. Waited as one man each took an arm. The third scooped up Solo’s legs at the knee. Nichol was standing off to the side, arms crossed over his chest.

I struck him first. A kick to the head.

I spun back and slammed the hammer into the face of the man on Solo’s right arm.

Then I placed a hand on the table and rammed both feet into the belly of the one just now dropping Solo’s feet.

The man clinging to Solo’s left arm topped with a squawk as the prisoner rolled off of the table and right onto him.

Quinze had leaped to his feet, but the table was now free of dead weight and I gave it a hard shove, knocking him back against the concrete wall. He crumpled in silence while Solo pummeled the guard beneath him.

Quinze groaned, still dazed. The man I’d kicked in the belly was still standing. He reached for his gun. In the time it took for him to release it from its holster, I’d kicked the table sharply into Quinze, the edge striking him in the head and knocking him out, and I launched myself for the weapon. Dodged low and came up on a spin that gave me more than enough momentum to jam the head of the hammer into his throat and tear the gun from his grasp.

I could have shot him, but no. Too soon. I still didn’t know if Heero was in position.

The butt of the gun smashed into his skull, which bounced off of the wall with a dull _thud!_

The hammer was already in motion, swinging toward Nichol. Striking home. His hands twitched, but otherwise he lay still.

“Maxwell!” I barked. The guard beneath him was bloody. Unconscious. I dropped the hammer and tossed him the gun.

He caught and pointed it at Quinze, who was now gasping through the agony of a concussion, nonsensically palming at the heavy table that trapped him against the wall. Incoherent with vertigo and nausea. I carefully rolled up my left shirtsleeve and revealed the garrote I’d wrapped around my forearm beneath my long sleeved jean shirt and on top of my usual turtleneck.

“Quiet,” I reminded him as I coiled the length of serrated plastic around the nearest guard’s neck and sliced. One. Two. Three. I saved Nichol for last.

Blood pooled and slid along the slight angle of the floor to drip into the drain. Taking a knife from the nearest utility belt, I sidled up beside Solo. “We need Quinze alive,” I muttered by way of explanation.

I waited until Solo nodded and I sliced off the lower six inches of his gown. And then the next six inches. And the next. Solo kept the gun aimed at White Fang’s founder until I’d tied each of his wrists to adjacent table legs and gagged him roughly with the third.

When I stood, I saw that Solo was still holding the gun. Hands steady.

I went to the bucket and fished out the rest of the items I’d gathered in the maintenance bay: awl, vise, pliers, wire cutters, blow torch, and finally the camera headset Heero had left for me in one of the drawers of the standing tool chest. Right where I’d told him to.

With my back turned to Nichol, it had been a simple matter of slipping the thing under my shirt and tucking it into the waistband of my pants while I’d distracted him by fidgeting with my hair. And it’d been even easier to remove it and transfer it to the bucket while Nichol had been gaping at my marred back. With his attention fixed on me during the return trip to the detention area, the headset had sat unnoticed amid the other tools.

Now, I put it on and activated it.

“Duo? Do you read?”

“I read you, babe. Solo?”

“He’s right here.” I turned to give Duo an up-close look at his bedraggled brother. “Say hi,” I instructed Solo, angling the mic within range for a clear transmission.

“Hey, there dweeb. You gonna save the day?”

“That’s the plan,” Duo said into my ear, delighted and overjoyed and, with how wide he must have been smiling, it was amazing he could get any words out at all. “What are we dealing with?”

I moved in close to the cuffs on Solo’s wrists, aiming the camera toward the bulky device. “Explosives?” I asked, articulating my earlier suspicion.

“Yup,” Duo confirmed, calm and cool and ready for the next level. “I’ll talk you through it.”

I smiled. “Ready whenever you are.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This line:  
>  _No one would ever **need** more than two or three guns… unless they were a contract killer._  
> I wrote this kind of tongue-in-cheek because I do have close relatives in the US who own a couple of dozen guns. And I'm 97% certain they aren't mob hitmen or contract killers.


	8. “Shh… I’m sleeping.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Duo POV
> 
> Warnings: gore

We had to work fast. I knew that. On one half of the tablet screen, I could see that Heero was making good, silent progress through the facility, setting charges and planting cameras. His role depended on moving undetected. So far, he’d had to make two very quiet kills and conceal the bodies. It had cost time and increased risk. But I could only watch his back, cycling through the feed from the cameras he’d already planted. It was kind of a miracle that Heero hadn’t been discovered yet. The uniform he’d stolen from one of the dead men and was now wearing was helping with camouflage, allowing him to move confidently out in the open.

But still. The guy wasn’t super human. Wasn’t half as good as my Trowa.

I hadn’t seen the fight in the interrogation room itself, but when Trowa had activated the headset, I’d gotten a brief, sweeping glimpse of four bodies on the floor. Given the condition that Solo was in, Trowa’d probably taken down all but one of those armed guards. And then there was Randolf Quinze himself, who had been gagged and bound to the very table that he’d been using to torture my brother on. Now that was fucking poetic.

I’d try my hand at a haiku later.

But first, the explosives.

“This could take a while,” I warned, focusing totally on the second half of the video feed. Heero was on his own until further notice. “Tell the old man there that he might wanna sit down.”

Trowa translated to Solo: “Duo says you should sit down because you’re old.”

“Fuck that!”

I laughed. And then I got down to business. “OK, Tro, lift Solo’s arms up so I can see the underside of the device, too…”

At first glance, the cuffs looked impenetrable. But, luckily, I was very good at what I do and I’d seen a fair share of shady shit in my day, so I had a very educated guess on where to start.

“Right there. Yup,” I encouraged as Trowa slid the awl against a crease in the casing. “Don’t stab inward as you pop that off.”

With a decisive twist of his wrist, Trowa had the casing loose. Again, he crouched down and then leaned up, examining every angle for trip wires or pressure-sensitive components before lifting it away. Inside, someone had incorporated cellphone hardware with rudimentary skill. A phone call would set off a chain reaction, blowing the compound that I strongly suspected lined each clunky link of the restraints.

“Follow the white wire around to the left--”

Trowa did.

“Clip that.”

With a _snip!_ it was done and the explosives stuffed into the rest of the links of Solo’s cuffs were now incapable of receiving an electrical charge, but--

“Now back to the detonator -- it’s still attached to the explosive material in that link.” Disconnecting the cellphone receiver was trickier, but Trowa was easily ten times more patient that Solo.

“Can we hurry this up? I’m standing in congealing blood here. Gross.”

“You’ll be bleeding to death in congealing blood if you try to rush us,” Trowa murmured, following my instructions as he carefully pried one side of the hardware up and finally located the wire that needed to be cut. “Hold still,” he ordered.

The _snip!_ of the wire cutters echoed like a gunshot.

Then, using a utility knife, Trowa was able to pry the locking mechanism open. There. Done. Trowa put the handcuffs carefully aside and looked down.

Now for part deux.

For this Solo really did need to be sitting, feet as close to the room’s brightest source of light as possible. Which meant stretching his legs along the table and angling the shackles under the fluorescent bulb.

“Fuck. My bare ass is hanging outta this thing,” my brother bitched.

“Don’t,” Trowa told him firmly, “bring my attention to it unless you’d like to hear how it compares to Duo’s.”

“Pshaw. My ass is glorious.”

“Your ass,” my lover continued in a deceptively mild tone, “could use some toilet paper.”

“Hey. It’s been six days. Did ya see that bucket over there across the hall? Six. Days.”

“Seven. And congratulations on hitting the target.” At that moment, the casing came free on the shackles and Trowa got to work with the wire cutters.

Three minutes passed without any obnoxious commentary. “Hey, babe? Is Solo still with us?”

“He’s passed out from terror.”

“Shh… I’m sleeping.”

I rolled my eyes. “Well, I’m convinced.”

“Hm,” Trowa agreed and, yes, I could hear his smirk in that tiny, throaty sound.

The shackles came free and Solo pulled his blood-smeared feet off of the tabletop. As he hunted up some clothes, Trowa asked, “What’s Yuy’s ETA?”

“Stand by. I’ll give him the green light for extraction.”

Trowa was still wearing the headset, so I was treated to the sight of my lover’s hands helping my battered and wobbly brother stuff his ass into one of the outfits that the guards had been wearing.

“You got something against plain ol’ knives for blood work, Trowa? Or is this a hitman kink?”

Amazingly, my lover didn’t punch Solo for that. Even though he definitely deserved it.

“A garrote is cleaner. If done right.” He gestured to the remarkably dry and splatter-free camouflage-print jumpsuit.

“Oh. Huh.”

I smirked. Not even Solo could argue with the lack of blood stains.

He finished suiting up. A black knit cap covered his tangled hair.

Now we just needed the door to open.

It was time to deal with Quinze.

I reported in: “Yuy’s standing by at your location.”

“Comms operative?” Trowa checked.

I double checked and Yuy gave me an impatient affirmative. I said, “Good to go.”

Trowa held out the utility knife that he’d used to disassemble the restraints. “Right thumb. You or me?”

“Dumb question,” my brother grumbled and grabbed the knife. Mercifully, Trowa pointed the camera away from both Quinze’s right hand and his face. I still heard the man’s agonized screams, though, muffled through the gag.

A disembodied thumb in Trowa’s hand. He pressed it to the screen on the man’s wristwatch. When it lit up, Trowa read me the pass code that had been generated. I repeated it to Heero, who punched it in on the glowing keypad.

The cell unlocked and the door shrieked and stuttered open. And then everything was a jumble on two screens because Trowa was moving toward the hall, scanning for interlopers, but at the same time, Heero was letting Solo tuck himself up against the shorter man’s build.

“You get what you came for?” Heero checked, glancing toward the whimpering Quinze.

“Not quite.”

I looked away from the monitor as my brother lifted the knife and leaned down.

I would never, as long as I lived, forget the swift squelching sound of a man’s throat being sliced open. Never.

I swallowed. Cleared my throat. “You guys ready now or are you gonna take some selfies?”

“We’re ready,” Trowa said before Solo could start rifling through Heero’s pockets for his cellphone.

I cycled through the surveillance cameras that Heero had installed between the detention cell and the maintenance hangar. “Move out.”

I practically held my breath as they marched through the corridors and up the stairs. Twice, they were forced to pass Quinze’s men when there just wasn’t time for me to tell them to take cover. Amazingly, no one bothered to look at Solo or Heero at all. They were too busy gaping at Trowa and his bloody hands for the thought to even cross their minds.

No one tried to stop them from getting into a solid-looking 4x4. Trowa claimed shotgun and Heero got behind the wheel. He then passed a remote to my lover.

“Hit the switch in three seconds.”

As Heero maneuvered the vehicle around, Trowa counted down: “Three… two… one… fire in the hole.”

I hit the mute button.

The hangar door exploded in silence.

Both Heero’s and Trowa’s cameras showed me nothing beyond a massive plume of dust rushing over the 4x4. I keyed the sound back on and, for a hot second, I thought the shock wave had blown out the mics in the headsets, but not two seconds later, I was getting staticy audio from Trowa’s. He must have shut it off just before hitting the trigger.

Smart man, my fiancé. Hell yeah.

Bits of concrete and whatnot clanked and scraped over the 4x4, but I could see daylight ahead, which meant it was time for me to get Heero’s SUV in gear.

I looked up through the windshield and, yup, sure enough, there was a cloud of dust on the horizon. Time for the pickup.

Tossing the tablet screen onto the passenger seat, I cranked the ignition and floored it, tires spinning in the loose dirt and gravel of the driveway I’d been staking out. Not that much had been happening here: I’d counted at least one raccoon that had holed up under the sagging porch of the abandoned farmhouse, but that was about it.

The pothole-punctured country lane got me to the nearest access road between the fields. It was little more than rock-scattered overgrown ruts between deep ditches and since we were gonna need at least one reliable vehicle, I forced myself to pull over and wait the thirty seconds it took the 4x4 to emerge from the billowing dirt storm and bounce its way up to the asphalt.

I was outta the car the second I heard the brakes screech and then Trowa was swinging out of the shotgun seat. I was just about knocking him back into it before he could take a step and, Jesus. The feel of his arms around me was never gonna get old.

“Miss me?” he teased, placing a kiss on my neck.

“If you didn’t feel that tackle, then you’ve got problems.”

His arms flexed. “So long as you’re one of them.”

I guffawed.

“Hey, butt wipe. This is how you greet your only brother after fifteen fucking months?”

“No, shit breath. It’s how I ignore his irresponsible, suicidally short-sighted ass.”

Heero hummed. “Your brother’s no-lie policy is underrated.”

Solo huffed in affront.

“Let’s boogie,” I declared and ushered Trowa toward the passenger side door of the SUV. “Heero, you’ve got the backseat for op assessment. Solo can run along in our dust cloud.”

“I hate you so much right now, you little fart.”

“Hate all you want. You spat a loogie on my fiancé. I’m taking it personally.”

“Hey! If anybody should be taking shit personally, it’s me. That was a fucking asshole kidney shot!”

“Two words,” Trowa replied blandly: “Bomb vest. I’m willing to call it even.”

Grumbling, Solo let Heero shove him into the backseat. Doors slammed shut. Seat belts buckled.

I reached over, grabbed Trowa’s blood-smeared and dust-caked hand, and then I hit the gas.


	9. “Of course I love you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trowa POV
> 
> Warnings: sexytimes

“There’s good news and bad news,” Heero declared, interrupting yet another brotherly spat. This time it was about Duo’s inability to say proper goodbyes. Personally, I’d be fine if he never said goodbye to me. A veritable dream come true.

But Heero had cut through the petty accusations and juvenile insults instead of waiting for an opening. I could see it was a strategy I would have to adopt if Solo was going to be hanging around.

Solo’s head whipped toward Heero and, with a dazzling grin, guessed, “You brought the lube but forgot the hand wipes?”

“Jesus,” Duo huffed, looking pained.

“By the way, bro, the man and I here totally did the nasty in your Baby. Behind the wheel an’ everything!”

Anticipating Duo would stomp on the brake and calmly request to borrow a weapon from me, I was surprised when he merely tilted his head to the side and mused, “The lip balm work out all right? You can thank me for not getting the cherry flavor.”

I snorfled. Heero coughed.

Solo’s jaw dropped and I decided it was now or never: “You have news for us, Yuy?”

“As I was saying,” he drawled, lips twitching as he tried very hard not to be charmed by Solo’s befuddlement.

Apparently realizing that not only had Duo stolen his thunder but he was about to be ignored, the older Maxwell flopped back against the seat, arms crossed, and pouted.

“The good news,” Heero said, “is that I successfully located five of the explosive devices that Solo had planted prior to his capture and tied all of them into my remote.”

“But of course you did, Heero,” Duo agreed in a chipper tone. “You actually finished my seminar on the use of explosives in the field. Unlike some.” He sent a glare at his brother via the rear view mirror.

“Oh, fuck off it already,” Solo grouched. He then nudged Heero. “What other good news you got for us, babe?”

I tried not to stiffen at the endearment. Seeing Duo’s wince somehow made me feel a little better and a lot less weird at hearing that word coming out of Solo’s mouth.

“White Fang’s in the market for a new base, commander, and mindless drone army.”

“Awesome!”

Heero smirked at the man’s enthusiasm. “However, Merquise’s project was not on-site.”

“That would be the bad news,” Duo agreed, tapping his forefingers against the steering wheel.

“What else?” I prompted.

“According to the data I downloaded from the main computer, the timeline has been pushed up. We don’t have until the end of the month.”

“Shit,” Solo spat.

Duo sighed. “You guys gotta report in. Pronto.”

“If you’re both seriously considering going back,” I added, boggling at the consequences they’d be facing.

Duo was on the same wavelength: “Are they even gonna let you keep your badges after this? I mean, last I heard, vigilante justice on an unsanctioned target using official equipment is, like, all three strikes rolled into one.”

“Eh, fifty-fifty shot,” Solo replied flippantly. “Noin’s the new director.”

Duo propped his elbow against the edge of the window, lowered his forehead into his hand, and massaged his temple. He sucked in a deep breath and then blew it out very, very slowly. “Oh… great.”

“This would be the part where I tell you exactly where your Baby is right now,” Heero told Duo.

Solo startled. “Where is it?”

“Packed in a shipping container at the port. If they don’t hear otherwise from me within three days, it’s getting sent to the Cayman Islands.”

“You--what!? Don’t you love me at all!?”

“Of course I love you. I’ve already delayed shipment twice.”

“Look, Heero,” Duo interjected before Solo could find his second wind. “Can’t you just beam the White Fang data to your computer at the office and then, I dunno, ping Noin so she checks it? Or something to buy us a little time?”

Heero tapped the tablet screen. “Done.”

“Asshole,” Solo fondly accused.

I was just glad Duo and I weren’t in the habit of calling one another that one.

“Do you trust this new director -- Noin?” I asked quietly as the motel room door shut behind me. I thought of the car I’d abandoned in the White Fang base. The handgun and rifle. None of them would trace back to us or the life we’d tentatively begun to build together, and I was so close to tempting fate and just going home to our apartment-above-the-shop. But I knew we’d be pushing our luck.

It was time to run again.

Duo placed his bag on the desk and, bracing his hands on the top of the straight-backed chair, said, “Noin is ambitious as hell, but she’s more open to negotiation than Une ever was.”

“What can she do for us?”

Meeting my gaze with a crooked grin, Duo said, “As the director? She could move Christmas.” He stood tall and approached me, gestured for me to give him my left hand. When I did, he matter-of-factly slid the wedding band back in place on my finger. “She could wipe the slate clean. We could actually help our nephew finish his model GTO.”

I gaped. Not just at the possibility of seeing James again -- something I’d abandoned the moment I’d offered to walk into White Fang territory -- but-- _“Our_ nephew?” I checked, breathless.

“What, did you think I’d let you dodge the ol’ ball an’ chain forever?”

Duo’s smile. It was the most gorgeous sight I had ever seen. Or would ever see.

“So what’s that worth to us, Tro?”

I reached out, leaned in, and tilted my brow against his. “I’ll listen to what she has to say.”

“Okie dokie. So, I guess it looks like we can settle in and get a solid eight hours, huh?”

“Hmm,” I rumbled and marveled as Duo shivered in my embrace. “Settle in. I like the sound of that.” I very much liked the feel of it, too, as I nuzzled up to and against his lips and then licked my way into his hot mouth.

We had time for a shower. More than enough time. And we had more than enough lube.

Duo panted against the plastic liner, steam billowing and water hissing around us as I massaged him open, teased him from the inside out with two fingers.

“Jeez--Jesus, Tro. Oh, my God.”

I nipped his neck and, out of the corner of my eye, watched his fingers curl against the smooth surface of the wall. “No,” I corrected him gently. “I’m kneeling at your altar tonight.”

He shuddered. “That’s so--so unfair. ‘S gonna take forever to dry and braid my hair.”

“We’ve got all night.” A claim that I happily proved, both stretching him thoroughly and stretching him out on a rack of lust. Gentle caresses as I took a turn drying his hair, and then sinking to my knees to take him into my mouth when it was his turn and his hands were busy handing the blow dryer.

When he braced both hands on the desk behind him, I stood, sucking his tongue into my mouth as my fingers wove through the damp strands of his long locks, lifting them away from his scalp so that the hot air could reach them. Occasionally, I had to nudge the nozzle of the blow dryer back on target.

When Duo fumbled with the controls and it turned off with a click, I playfully protested, “Your hair’s still damp.”

“Braid it anyway. Night’s wasting.”

I compromised. Guiding Duo onto the bed, pressing his hands and knees into the mattress, I carefully shifted his hair out of the way and slid lubed fingers slowly back into his heat.

“Oh-oh-ho-hoh,” he exhaled, thrusting his hips greedily and spreading his legs. I found that place inside him that made him go limp and suddenly he was on his elbows, ass in the air. Perfect.

My entry was slow. Gentle. Fully seated, I paused and reached for the hand wipes. I cleaned up and then looped a hair band around my wrist. Then I started braiding, timing shallow thrusts with each soft tug on his scalp.

“Trowa, oh God. Trowa…”

I rocked into him, with him, took my time appreciating every nuance of his raw moans and clawing hands. His curling toes.

I tied off the end with a flourish that made him whimper.

But with his hair done, there was no need for me to deny myself the sight of his face any longer. With a kiss to his shoulder, I purred, “I think we’re both warmed up now.”

He mewled as I gradually pulled out. He rolled over and held out his arms for me. I tugged him up into my lap and, straddling my outstretched legs, he dived in for a kiss -- oh, God, his kisses -- and it was all I could do to slick myself once more for him because he was shimmying up my body, rising over me, and then lowering himself on my length.

“So deep, baby,” he gasped as I tried to remember how to breathe. I braced myself up on one arm, wrapped the other around the tail end of his braid and gave it a tiny tug.

He hissed, his hips jerking and fucking fuck so fucking deep and hot and all him. I rolled my hips into his thrusts and when his head fell back, I tightened my grip on his hair, bent forward to lick his chest. He was so sensitive. So beautifully sensitive.

And when his thighs started trembling, I wrapped both arms around him, opened my legs and bore him to the mattress, hauling him toward the cradle of my hips, impaling him, thrilling at strength of his grip as he tried to hold on even as his senses scattered.

My slick hand on his hard length, pumping in time with steady thrusts and he then he was coming, gasping my name, keening with the white-hot pleasure of it. Whimpering and shivering and wrecked.

Again, I withdrew, placed hot, wet kisses on his neck and then rolled him over, centering a pillow beneath his hips. I slicked myself again and he spread his thighs and yesssss--

“Duo, oh, Duo.”

“Hm, that’s right, baby. You go on and take as much as you want. Wanna give it to you--”

I groaned, the heat building too fast, and I slowed. Savored how warm and welcoming he was. How much he wanted me. Wedging my arms under his, I fucked into him with rolling thrusts that had us dancing filthily on the coverlet.

“Duo,” I moaned into his ear, loving loving loving him so much. Over and over and over. “You give me everything,” I gasped, finally answering his dirty, hot promises.

“Then fill me up, baby. C’mon.” He clamped down tight and a shocked grunt escaped me. Forehead pressed to his shoulder in defeat, I gave in. Snapped my hips into him.

He cried out. His back arched. His ass angled to take as much of me as he could. Everything. Duo had all of me.

“Yes-yes-yes, that’s it. Give it to me.”

Oh, God. He was so hot and mine and open and sexy and all he wanted was me and this and--

My breath caught as fireworks erupted under my skin and behind my eyes and I was coming so hard and long and Duo’s voice-- “More, baby. All you’ve got. I want it.”

I was tingling and mindless and my first coherent thought was one of awe: he wanted me. As I collapsed on his back, panting sharp, humid breaths against his skin, I marveled. This man -- so kind and gentle and smart and sexy and perfectly beautiful -- wanted me. Even after he’d seen the blood on my hands.

With a herculean effort, I stretched out an arm and covered his hand with mine. He didn’t hesitate. Just like he hadn’t hesitated back there on the road just beyond the destroyed compound. He didn’t shy away from the blood and filth. He’d found something in me that was worth reaching out for and holding on to.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Solo’s jibe about having sex with Heero in Duo’s 1971 GTO and the unscented vasaline lip balm is from Kangofu_CB’s “Free Ride.” Go -- read it -- love it. (If you haven’t already.) (^_~)


	10. “Sometimes I just can’t control myself around you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trowa POV

Duo woke with a wince. I was ready with a bottle of water and some aspirin.

“Tycho Rowan Barton,” he purred, scooping the pills out of my palm. “The love machine.”

Which was why Duo didn’t often let me have my way with him. At least, not without a hot tub in the vicinity. I smirked. “All love--” I pressed a kiss to his bare shoulder. “All the time.” Another kiss to the center of his forehead.

“Seriously, though, I gotta take up yoga. Pilates. Something.”

“Gymnastics,” I added with a wicked wiggle of my brows.

He groaned, eyelids sliding closed, and held out a hand for the water bottle. I accommodatingly placed it in his grasp, cap removed. “I both hate and love that you can do that stuff.”

I knew why he loved it -- that was a given -- but-- “Hate? That’s harsh.”

“No, damn it.” He sighed. “Because. Sometimes I just can’t control myself around you.”

“Sometimes?” I objected with a show of alarm. “Well, we’ll have to work on that.”

“Please, no. Jesus God damn fuck it all, if I thought I could get away with it, I’d suck you off on a street corner.”

I tweaked his nose. “I’ve already agreed to marry you. No need to sweeten the deal with public displays of indecency.”

Duo swallowed the aspirin and a gulp of water before lowering the bottle and opening his eyes. “You don’t want me indecent?”

“It’s indecent how much I want you indecent.”

“Ah, but I forget. My fiancé’s the jealous type.” He winked.

“Maybe it’s just not enough sleep.”

Something in my tone brought him up short. I damned myself even as he checked, “What time did you wake up?”

I shrugged a shoulder. Duo didn’t badger me with questions. He scooped up my arm and tugged until I was lying across his chest.

“Nightmares?” It wasn’t even a question, really.

“Nothing I wasn’t expecting.”

I felt him press a kiss to the crown of my head. He was probably hating himself right now, hating the circumstances, hating that it really had had to be me going in there. Even with Duo watching the cameras, Yuy never could have located Solo without either tipping off the enemy or -- even worse -- getting caught himself.

“Thank you,” Duo told me, setting the water down on the nightstand so that he could squeeze me tight in both arms. “You saved Solo’s life.”

I didn’t tell him that I hadn’t done it for Solo. He knew that. I’d gone in there because Duo had stuck with me through all of my anger and shame and frustration. In those first wretched forays into intimacy, into bare skin and deep scars, Duo had never let the darkness win. He’d fought for us. For me. He’d saved me.

When I shifted, he loosened his hold enough for me to lean back. I looked him in the eye and said with complete honesty, “I’ve got no regrets.”

He tried to smile and I appreciated the effort. Rewarded him with a kiss. And a massage for his overtaxed thighs and lower back.

“I’m not old,” he blurted in between appreciative groans.

“Not old,” I agreed, “but not flexible.” He hissed in counterpoint to the squeeze I gave his hamstring.

Check-out was at ten o’clock, but the phone in our room trilled not long after nine. As Duo scooped it up, I heard the approach of a powerful engine. Perhaps belonging to an SUV. Similar to Heero’s.

“That didn’t take long,” Duo said. “Yeah, you guys come on over. Our room’s decent,” he added as I tucked the lube back into my backpack’s front left pocket.

“Noin?” I guessed as he hung up the phone.

“Confirmed.” He tapped my elbow. “Look, we can still sneak out the back.”

I didn’t move. “Duo…”

“Are you sure?”

I reached out and rubbed his arms. “Yes. I want those eight years to mean something.”

Duo didn’t ask which eight years. He knew. The eight years I’d spent killing for Treize Khushrenada. I knew things. Things that could make a difference. A good kind of difference.

“OK.” He pulled on his jeans.

I tugged on my turtleneck. I’d already cleaned the garrote and tucked it into my pants pocket, which was a bad place for it to be if someone tried to pat me down. They’d slice their fingers when they reached in for it and then I’d have to deal with bloodstains on denim. So I wrapped it around my forearm over the turtleneck fabric and then pulled on my sweater. The jean shirt had too much blood on it. While using a garrotte was neater than a knife, it wasn’t perfect.

“You expect you’ll need that?” Duo asked, glancing toward the concealed weapon.

“If we have to run.” I licked my lip as I hesitated and then went ahead and told him, “Sometimes a brief hesitation is all it takes.”

He held out a hand. I took it.

A few moments later, when a spirited knock was rapped out upon our door, we both answered it.

Heero and Solo were on the doorstep, of course. Heero looked slightly worse for wear, easily as rumpled and disheveled as Solo, who otherwise seemed bright eyed and bushy tailed. Behind them was a tall woman in a functional pantsuit. I noted her short, dark hair and the lack of agents looming in her shadow. Even her vehicle appeared empty. She’d come alone.

Duo invited her in and reaffirmed his grip on my hand.

“Lucrezia Noin,” she said to me, but didn’t offer to shake.

I nodded.

When I didn’t introduce myself, she smiled. “I do know who you are, but no one else has to.”

“In exchange for what?” It was both a shock and a relief to get down to business so quickly.

“In exchange for your assistance with Agents Maxwell and Yuy’s most recent operation.”

My jaw clenched. I glared at Solo who promptly held up his hands. Shook his head. No, Duo and I hadn’t been played. Solo really had taken off on his own and Heero really had been desperate enough to accept our help.

Noin clarified, “That’s the official story.”

“How’s the ending look?” Duo pressed.

“Wide open.” In response to our combined disbelief, she insisted, “Neither of you are in the system any longer. Your current whereabouts will be known by Agents Maxwell and Yuy only. Is that acceptable?”

It was. Except for the part about what it was going to cost us.

She addressed that concern next: “I hope you’ll seriously consider working with us as consultants. We could use your input on an upcoming assignment.”

Merquise’s project. Whatever that was.

“We’ll think about it,” Duo promised.

“That’s all I ask.” Of course it was. Duo and I were valuable assets. Assets she would lose if we caught a flight to the Caymans. Rather than threats, she was using leniency to entice us to stay local. Turning to Solo and Heero, she said only, “Reports within twelve hours, gentlemen. I’ll see you both on Monday.”

And then she left.

As soon as her vehicle pulled out onto the road, Duo rounded on his brother. “How the hell are you two idiots not in handcuffs right now?”

“Because she doesn’t want to look like she can’t control her own people,” I answered for him.

Heero gave me an assessing look.

I shrugged. Be it the boss of a mafia or the director of a government agency, the same rules applied: a single tremor could turn into a life-ending quake in the blink of an eye. “We kept the situation contained. No one has proof that any actions taken weren’t by-the-book. You get to keep your jobs because disciplining you would reflect back on her. Poorly.”

Duh.

“Of course, the downside,” I continued, “is that you’ve given her the upper hand over your careers.” And lives.

Heero didn’t look too bothered by that. Solo’s shoulders relaxed as he glanced back out the open door. “Huh,” he said.

And this would be the difference between a mafia boss and a director of a government agency: where my remarks would have earned dread from Treize’s people, Solo and Heero seemed almost optimistic.

Idiots.

But they were smart enough to give me an evaluating look.

Duo lifted his free hand and ruefully scratched at his mussed braid. “Heh. Don’t look so shocked, guys. You always knew I was holding out for a smart one.”

Solo rolled his eyes.

“So when’s the wedding?” Heero inquired, tone flattened with sarcasm.

Yes, Heero Yuy might have been joking around, but Duo and I weren’t.

Duo grinned at me. “Wanna swing by Vegas?”

“Oh no,” I retorted, a smile stretching my lips. “You’re not getting off that easy.”

Not from me or from Solo, who ordered his little brother to check his email when he got home. And of course, there was a belated birthday greeting waiting for him:

_Stop lights are red, cop gear is blue, I’m over thirty, now so are you!_

Duo put his head in his hands on a mirthful sigh. “What a moron.”

I squeezed Duo’s shoulders from where I stood behind his chair. “He cares. Can’t fault him for that.”

“Eh. At least this is shorter than the limerick.”

I laughed and leaned down to kiss his temple. And when Duo took a video call two days later, I locked up the shop and just sat with him as he talked the tactical team through disarming a chemical bomb. The engineer had already been taken into custody. Heero called to warn me they’d found a link to Batholomew Dekim.

“Prepare yourself for a call from the director.”

I did. Thank God nobody asked me to set foot on Dekim’s turf. The paranoid nut job definitely would have shot me on sight. And my fiancé would’ve had to find someone else to stand up in front of Solo and Heero, Cathy, Dorian, and James on the big day.

“Are you sure you’ve got this?” I checked with my nephew. “Being the best man is a tough job and you’re pulling double duty.” For both me and Duo.

He rolled his eyes. “Jeez, Uncle T. Relax. Mom said we could order pizza and who doesn’t love _Space Balls?”_

This bachelor party was going to be off the chain. Most definitely.

It was fun watching Heero try to wade through all the campy jokes of that generational classic and, eventually, Solo leaned over and purred, “I’ll explain it to you later.”

That earned him a slug in the arm. But Solo was fast -- he caught Heero’s fist and wrestled the other man around until they were sprawled and spooning on the sofa. James was busy showing Duo how to comb the carpet for treasure. Cathy reached for my hand and gave it a squeeze.

“Just think, this time tomorrow, you’re going to be an old married fuddy-duddy like me.”

I looped and arm over her shoulder and accepted the can of ginger ale that Dorian passed me. “That means a lot,” I told my sister and then had to poke the bear in the eye: “But no one could be fuddy-duddier than you.”

Duo and I waited until Cathy and Dorian had gone to bed and Solo and Heero had taken off for their hotel and James had passed out during a lull in _Jumanji_ and then he grabbed my hand and nodded me toward the kitchen, herded me toward the pantry nook, and proceeded to kiss the hell out of me.

“This had better be a down payment on the honeymoon,” I warned him.

“Oh, baby. I am gonna rock your socks off.” A lusty squeeze to my ass and a time frame: “Thirteen hours and counting!”

We said our vows at the riverside. Cathy and Dorian kindly put together a picnic for us. It was a fair spring day. Almost identical to the first time James had flown his RC plane. He’d brought it along today and Solo pestered him until James agreed to show him how to fly it.

Cathy and Dorian quietly debated how they were going to surprise James on his birthday, which was just around the corner. Duo got into an argument with Heero over the most aerodynamic design for a paper airplane. I leaned my shoulder against my husband’s, tilted my head back and closed my eyes. When Duo’s hand found mine on the blanket, I smiled.

My lover, my family, and our future. An RC plane and a wide open sky.

“What’re you thinking?” Duo whispered playfully in my ear.

I opened my eyes to his grin, noting that Heero had decided to intercede before Solo managed to make a mortal enemy of our nephew. I told him, “Remote-controlled planes.”

“Radio-controlled planes,” he insisted, eyes sparkling at the memory.

“And out of all the hobby shops in the city, I had to walk into yours.”

“Not gonna lie -- I was hoping real hard you had an ex-wife and a bi-curious streak.”

“Nope, I was just the quiet, single, gay uncle.”

Duo interlaced our fingers. “Not so single anymore.” And then predicted with relish, “Not gonna be so quiet, either, ninety minutes from now.”

“Promises, promises,” I challenged.

And he answered, “You got that right. Through good times and bad.”

“Shh… don’t spoil the ending.”

Duo scooted even closer and shook his head. “Nope, no ending. Just this forever.”

Forever. A hard promise to keep. But I was more than willing to give it a shot. I grinned. “What a blast.”

He snorted and I chuckled and Cathy took our picture when we fell into a sloppy kiss. Days later, she presented us with a framed copy. “Every home needs a photo of a kiss on a wedding day.”

Sisters. So bossy. Sheesh.

But as the years passed, Duo and I were glad for that photo. In fact, it’s still here. And so are we.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Do you have any idea how tempted I was to go the A-Team route with these dudes? Imagine it: Solo, Heero, Duo, and Trowa -- soldiers of fortune on the run from the government taking on jobs of dubious legality (or no legality at all) kicking ass and taking names and saving the fucking day. But, like, that would probably require that I write an entire series of “episodes” and, frankly, I’m just not ready for that kind of commitment! (^_~)
> 
> But seriously, I really didn’t want to make Trowa give up his family. So, if (and that’s a BIG “if”) I write more mission-type things in this universe, I still want Trowa to have that touchstone of Cathy and James.
> 
> And, hey, if you’ve got a thought for a continuation of this AU, GO FOR IT. The more the merrier here in the Gone Rogue collection. (^_^)

**Author's Note:**

> My GW fanfic and fanart hub is still-always-and-forever at LiveJournal -- themanwell.livejournal.com
> 
> Take care, my GW Buddy!
> 
> Love,  
> Manny Manniness  
> manniness.dreamwidth.org


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